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 siege works. The colonel and his companion rode along the river bank toward one of the pontoon bridges connecting the siege workings 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 lovemaking 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 stable yard 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.
Tamsyn sighed. “Contrary to appearances, I'm here of my own free will. I assure you I'm not about to run away, and there's not the slightest need to 'keep an eye on me.’”
“But the colonel-”
“To the devil with the colonel,” she said crossly.
“He's in a bad mood, that's all. Now, could you please bring me something to drink?”
The brigade-major rose to his feet, his expression still uncertain. The girl didn't carry herself like any prisoner he'd come across, and the instruction to keep an eye on her was fairly vague… and it was certainly true that Colonel, Lord St. Simon hadn't looked to be in the best of tempers.