Tainted Angel (17 page)

I married Tom when I was seventeen, in Spain.”

He interrupted her. “How did you meet?”

She gave him a look. “I was a hostess in a gaming ken.”

Brows drawn together, he regarded her intently. “How did you come to be in Spain?”

“Are you going to interrupt me every step of the way? This is not an easy tale to tell.”

He leaned forward, his gaze very blue in the flickering firelight. “Could you start at the beginning, perhaps?”

She contemplated the fire, debating how much to tell him. She decided she may as well start at the very beginning—he had no one to blame but himself. “My mother had a liaison with my father, who was a traveling gambler and not one to be settling down with a family. I was born. I lived with my mother for a time, but then she married another ne’er-do-well against the advice of her relatives. He tended to drink away the money my father sent to support me.” She paused. “When I was fourteen I began to avoid my stepfather as he was a bit too friendly.”

She heard him make an involuntary sound of dismay, but she lifted her face to his and assured him, “I was very adept at defending myself—even then. My appearance was already beyond that of ordinary girls, and so I was forced to learn at an early age. One of our neighbors was an old man who had been a
soldado
a long time ago—when the Portuguese fought Spain.” She smiled, remembering. “He taught me to fight and to use a knife. He gave me his dead wife’s pistol and told me I would need it—if he was twenty years younger he would abduct me himself.”

Carstairs smiled to hear it. “An ally, then.”

She nodded. “Of a sort. He despised my stepfather and thought my mother a fool, but then again, he thought everyone a fool.”

Gently, he asked, “Did your mother refuse to believe ill of your stepfather?”

Lina rendered a soft smile. “No, she was very protective of me. She began to bring me to work—she sold flowers, ten
reis
a dozen—at a booth at the center of town. Lilies, mostly. We discovered if I hawked the flowers to gentlemen, sales were brisk.” She paused again, lost in the memory. “She told me my father had opened a gaming ken in Sevilla and was doing well—I believe she was thinking of leaving my stepfather and seeking him out. Then the invasion came.”

“Where was this?”

“Guarda.”

Carstairs whistled softly.

Swallowing, Lina tried to keep her voice level. “Well, you know what came next. The Portuguese army was guarding the ports and so there was literally no one to defend the villages when the French came marching through. The clergy and the old
soldado
closed the gates and mounted a defense—although it was hopeless from the first. My mother was never one to sit idly by; she hid me in the root cellar and manned a musket at the wall for a half-day before it was overrun and she was killed, as was everyone.”

There was another pause while Lina gently placed a finger under her eye and drew it away, observing the tip. Why, she thought in surprise, I am weeping—how strange.

His voice gentle, he asked, “Were you able to bury your mother?”

She drew a breath. “No. The soldiers took revenge for our resistance, but fortunately the pillaging could not last for long as they were on the march. After hiding another day in the cellar, I escaped at night and made my way to the east, avoiding the roads.” Impossible to describe to him the stench of the corpses that had already lain a day in the sun; or the acrid smell of gunpowder that still lingered as she picked her way through the rubble of her old neighborhood, alone and terrified of discovery.

Carstairs was quiet for a moment. “And your stepfather?”

She shook her head. “I know not—I assume he was killed also. I left for Sevilla to find my father. I had a romanticized notion that he was heroic, you see, and would rescue me from my difficulties.”

“And did he?”

She shook her head, but with a smile. “No—he had not the first clue what to do with a sixteen-year-old girl. To his credit, he looked after me in his own way and taught me cards. I have a good head for numbers, as it turned out, which was very helpful. He expanded his business and we moved northward. The Allied Armies were an excellent source of gaming revenue, but Napoleon’s troops were kept on a tighter string so he tended to avoid the areas occupied by the French.”

“Where was this?”

“San Pablo.”

He nodded.

Tracing a finger on the hearth beside her, she reflected, “It was not a bad life—I learned to read people, and to calculate odds and be patient until the odds were in my favor. And I made some friends.”

“Is that how you met Tom?”

She made a wry face. “Not exactly. My father wanted to buy another building but did not have the funds. The owner was an older widower—very wealthy—and my father arranged for my marriage to him in exchange for the building. I was seventeen and very unhappy with such a plan.”

“Infamous.”

But Lina only shook her head. “No, not infamous, in retrospect. Marriages for worldly gain are arranged every day, and I imagine I would have been treated very well. At the time, however, it seemed the end of the world.”

She paused, so he prompted, “Did you run away?”

She sighed. “No; there was no need as I was never without champions—but I was too young, as yet, to judge the quality of those champions. I was sitting on the garden wall and weeping with frustration when Tom wandered by—he was a sergeant stationed with the 59th at Corunna, and I was acquainted with him; I was acquainted with everyone in the area. He heard my story and promptly offered to elope with me.”

“Lucky man, to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Not so lucky—my father discovered the plan because Tom was boasting to his fellows and I was locked in my room pending my nuptials to the elderly widower.”

“And then? Did Tom rescue you?”

She shrugged. “I rescued myself; I tied the sheets together in the best tradition and climbed down the wall. My father had taken my clothes away so that I wouldn’t attempt an escape—as a result I turned up at the barracks in my nightdress.”

Carstairs grinned in appreciation and leaned back, resting on his hands. “Holy God—I can only imagine.”

Remembering the scene, she couldn’t help but smile herself. “Yes—it created quite the ruckus. But we managed to find the chaplain, a romantic soul who married us on the spot.”

“And your father?”

“I left with the regiment and never spoke to him. I imagine he was furious, but no more furious than I.”

“Is he still alive?”

She shrugged. “As far as I know.”

There was a pause while she drew her knees closer to her, and a small silence stretched out between them. Carstairs walked over to stir up the embers with the poker and place another piece of wood in the grate. He stood watching the fire for a moment in the silence, one boot resting on the fire jack. “How long did you follow the drum?” he prodded gently.

“Over a year.”

There was another silent pause, which was broken when he said in a quiet tone, “If you’d rather not tell me you needn’t, you know.”

She ran a hand through her hair, gauging its dryness and then fingered the very tip of a curl for a moment. “We were caught behind enemy lines in San Sebastian, after the French had turned on the Spanish—a small distance from Saragossa.”

This caught his interest and he turned his head toward her. “During the Spanish retreat?”

“Yes, our regiment was heading westward and didn’t anticipate the extent or the speed of the retreating Spanish. Some of the regiment managed to break through but the remainder were captured and held at San Sebastian. The Spanish soldiers were fresh from the misery of their own campaign and the French betrayal; they were bitter and undisciplined.”

He nodded, as they were both aware of the tumult at the time, when the French had suddenly turned on the Spaniards—their former ally—and all hell had broken loose. “Why did the Spanish bother to capture you? They should have been pelting back to Portugal to escape from the port.”

She explained, “The Spanish company who captured us had become separated from the rest of their regiment and were hoping for leverage, I think, to get them through the British lines and away to the port. They were panicked; rumors flew and no one knew where the main French force was.”

“It was chaos,” he agreed.

She looked up at him. “Were you there?”

“Southern Spain—in the hills.”

“With El Halcon,” she remembered. “I would like to hear your tale.”

He nodded. “Willingly—but let us finish your own, first.”

Dropping her gaze again she traced her knee through the blanket as the new wood crackled in the fire. “The Spanish captain found me attractive.”

“Did you shoot him?”

She met his eyes and realized he was serious, which she thought a fine compliment. “No. I wasn’t given the chance—or at least not at first.”

He settled in beside her on the hearth, stretching his long legs out before him. “Did he pay for his impertinence?”

She nodded and bit her lip. “Oh yes. He—and the others, they paid.”

“Good.” He took her hand. “Tell me.”

Our group was comprised of a dozen soldiers and three camp followers; Johanna and Libby were the other two women. We were captured at the Convent of Santa Isabella after a gun battle in the church; the Spanish held the altar and the sacristy at one end and we held the nave and the vestibule at the other end—it was absurd, truly. After we ran out of ammunition, we were forced to surrender, much to the relief of the Holy Sisters, who did not even wait until we were marched out before they swarmed the altar rail to begin prying the musket balls loose.”

He made a sound reflecting his sympathy while Lina put her chin on her knees and continued, “We were held in the general barracks on the outskirts of the town overnight; the Spanish had sustained terrible losses and were on edge—they had been betrayed and were not certain they could escape to Portugal. They believed, I think, that they could use us to force the English to come to their aid. A soldier was sent out as a scout to discover the status of their regiment, where the French were, and whether it would be worth their while to hold us as hostages.”

Carstairs interrupted her recital. “There is nothing worse than being captured—I’d as soon be wounded.”

“I agree—recall how we took a swim this night.” She slid him a sidelong look.

He ducked his head in acknowledgment. “
Touché
. Pray continue.”

“We thought it best to try to engage the captain and prevail upon him to let us go, and Tom went to parlay. When he returned to the barracks he was in high spirits—a false heartiness, as it turned out. He reported that the captain was a reasonable man and would let us go if I came to his quarters and played cards with him over a bottle of wine.” Color flooded her cheeks at the memory. “Of course, the unspoken condition was that I would let him bed me. Tom tried to make it sound as though this was a reasonable request.” She realized her voice was rising and took a breath to calm herself. “I refused, and we quarreled, but at least I thought that was the end of it.”

Soberly, her companion watched her in the flickering firelight. “But it wasn’t?”

“No. Later in the evening the mood seemed to change—our captors were friendlier, joking with our men, and we were informed we would be released the following morning when they retreated westward. We were fed the soldiers’ fare; a spicy stew with peppers and bread. The only drink was home-brewed whiskey—powerful stuff. I was unused to spirits, but our men kept toasting me, encouraging me to drink. A deal had been struck, with me unaware.” She could not contain the bitterness in her voice.

Carstairs bent his head and traced a finger along the veins on the back of her hand. “It was war. He was young, and frightened; and he didn’t have your steel—few do.”

“You would have died first.”

“A hundred times over,” he agreed. “But then I would have been dead and unable to help you.”

She retorted with anger, “Better to die with honor than to be slaughtered like a sheep in the courtyard the next morning.”

He met her eyes, startled. “Holy God. All of them?”

“Except the women,” she said in a brittle voice. “And the other two had a worse time of it than I—I was so sick from the drink that I miscarried. The soldiers looked for more appealing prey.”

He pulled her head against his shoulder and she felt his lips on her hair. “Lina, I am so sorry.”

“An evil day,” she whispered.

“How did you escape?”

She bowed her head for a moment. “The captain’s plans to keep me as a trophy were stymied by the pressing need to retreat. As I was in no shape to flee, he left me there.”

“And the other women?”

“I do not know what became of Johanna—she was not a strong woman to begin with. On the other hand, Libby had convinced one of the soldiers she was fond of him long enough to wrest his pistol and kill him. She was executed in the courtyard—flinging curses and defiant. I admired her greatly.”

“And took her name.”

Lina was apologetic. “She had a pension from her father, you see. It seemed such a waste—she would have understood.”

He was silent, absently rubbing her shoulder with his hand. “And then Invidia had her vengeance.”

“Yes. I found a pistol that had been left among the corpses and stumbled down the hill to a farmstead, where I stole an old cart horse; the occupants had fled ahead of the retreating army. I managed to mount up—even though I was weak as a kitten—and stalked the
bastardo
in the best
guerrilla
tradition; you would have been proud.”

“I could not be prouder.”

“As they retreated I followed along the tree line and picked them off—one by one—when the opportunity arose.” She mustered up a grim smile at the memory. “They were terrified, and had no idea who tormented them.”

“But the captain escaped?”

She sighed. “I finally fainted and fell off the horse near the Portuguese border.”

“Bad luck.”

“I suppose—although I lived to tell the tale, thanks to the kindness of a prostitute who took me in, thinking I shared her profession. At the time I truly didn’t care if I lived or died.”

“If the captain yet lives, I will find him and we will kill him together.”

She was touched by the gesture. “Lucien—how sweet.”

He rested his cheek against her temple. “A wedding gift.”

Smiling, she shook her head slightly. “Oh-ho; I have been down that wedding road before, my friend, and it is not a pleasant memory.”

His tone firm, he reiterated, “You will marry me, whether you will or no.”

Mildly, she returned, “I would be loath to have to take my pistol to you, too.”

“You wouldn’t.” He lifted her hand and kissed the palm. “I have been privileged to see beneath the shell.”

She stared into the fire, a half smile on her lips, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from her heart. He ran his hand down her back and absently played with her hair. “Who else knows of your story?”

“The Vicar, apparently,” she answered with a grimace. “Much to my dismay.”

He whistled again. “Impressive, that he tracked you back through that chaos.”

She corrected him, “Not precisely—remember, he believes I am Libby.”

“How did you come to be in this business—were you recruited over there?”

Resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, she gazed at the fire. “Yes. I continued killing French and Spanish soldiers indiscriminately, and apparently some spymaster heard of my exploits and thought I was sufficiently reckless to be recruited. And of course it helped that I had no connections and no plans.”

“And can make men witless,” he added.

“That, too,” she agreed. “At first, my role was constrained to that of an angel—to beguile military leaders into confessing strategy. Then I began interpreting the ciphered documents myself without having to make copies for others to interpret; my value increased and my assignments became more high profile. Then the war ended—or at least it seemed so at the time—and I moved to England to investigate those attempting to bring down the country from within; investment fraud, or embezzlement.”

He nodded. “And so you were assigned to link up with Brodie, whose actions in buying up all the Treasury bonds have alarmed the Home Office.”

“Yes—certainly a cause of grave concern.”

Into the silence he spoke, the words all the more alarming for their quiet tenor. “They are certain Rochon has met with you personally—last fall, when you broke contact.”

There was a long pause before she turned to meet his eyes. “Is that what this is about? I’m to confess, now that I’ve been softened up by my not-quite husband?”

He did not flinch. “I need to know how complicated my plan must be to clear you of any taint.”

With a wry smile, she rested her head on his shoulder and confessed, “Complicated. I have indeed met with Rochon in the flesh, and on more than one occasion.”

He was taken aback, she could tell, although he did not betray his surprise. “Yet you insist you are not tainted.”

She shook her head. “I am not—
santos
, it is tiresome of you to keep asking.”

With a frown, he attempted to puzzle it out. “If you are not tainted, then you must mean to betray Rochon—yet why won’t you simply admit this and say what you know?”

But she would not be drawn. “Again, complicated.”

He made a sound of frustration. “Who holds your allegiance, Lina?”

“You do.”

She lifted her head and they stared at each other for a long moment as the fire crackled. “We will save it for another time,” he pronounced in a husky voice and drew her into his arms.