He compromised by locking the door to the outside stairs, reasoning that she couldn't use the inside staircase without alerting him, and went downstairs to summon an orderly to bring a carafe of water.
While she waited, Tamsyn looked down on the street. Her observation seemed merely idle, but in fact her eyes were taking in everything, assessing the mood and efficiency of the soldiers as they went about their business. Elvas at the moment closely resembled El Baron's almost military encampments in the mountain villages where she'd grown up, and she knew what she was looking for. On the whole, the atmosphere seemed buoyant, as if the men were comfortable with their present military operation. Of course, the men at headquarters would have a different viewpoint from those entrenched in the parallels before Badajos. Investing a town was generally a grim, frustrating business, and Badajos was holding out much longer than it had any right to. And the longer it held out, the more savage would be its taking.
Tamsyn shuddered, her mouth twisting in disgust.
She knew that the old feudal rules of warfare still applied. If a besieged city surrendered in a gracious and timely fashion once it was clear it couldn't hold out, then its conquerors would be magnanimous. Lf it didn't, it was assumed its inhabitants asked for what they would get when the victorious besiegers poured through the breaches.
Soldiers, she thought. Savage beasts, whatever uniform they wore, whatever righteous cause they would tout. They were all the same.
The aide-de-camp came back, followed by an orderly with a carafe of water and a glass. Tamsyn turned from the window, and the power of the unfocused loathing in her violet eyes made them both draw back for an instant. Then it was gone, and she accepted the glass with a neutral nod of thanks.
Within the commander in chiefs sanctum it was warm, a fire burning in the grate against the dullness of the day. Wellington poured wine for himself and St. Simon. “So you wrested her from Cornichet's hands. Much trouble?”
“Not too much.” Julian sipped his wine. “At least not at that point.”
Wellington raised an eyebrow at this caveat but didn't pursue it. He moved to stand in front of the fire, his back to the cheerful glow. “How much had she told them?”
“Nothing. We arrived in the nick of time… quite literally.” He explained briefly how he'd recovered La Violette. “We were away from there with no casualties and made camp a few hours later.”
He paused. He was coming to the tricky part of his narrative. “The next morning the girl had personal needs to attend to. I escorted her beyond the camp to the river where there was an outcrop of rock. She was tethered by the ankle to my sword belt.” He drank again. Wellington remained silent.
“She has a giant of a bodyguard. A Scotsman. He managed to escape from Cornichet's camp under cover of the fire we'd set. He followed us, and I'm afraid he sprang out at me while I was waiting for Violette to… “
“Quite so.” Wellington waved a hand in comprehension. “He disarmed you?”
Julian nodded morosely. “I was a damn fool.” If you only knew how much of a fool.
“But you still brought her in?”
“Yes, with my assurance that she's free to leave whenever she chooses; but she's prepared to sell her information for the right price.”
“Which is?”
Julian shook his head. “As yet, she hasn't said.”
“And this gigantic bodyguard?”
“She sent him off on some errand. He's to find her here on his return.”
“A mysterious mercenary,” mused the commander.
He rubbed his backside meditatively in the fire's warmth, his eyes resting on the colonel's countenance.
He could read the man's chagrin, his sense of having failed in his mission, although by any standards it was only a technical failure. But Julian St. Simon didn't tolerate failure from anyone and least of all from himself
“Let's invite her in,” he said after a moment. “Hear what she has to say.”
Julian nodded and said slowly, “By the way, she's not quite what you might expect. She's half-English. By some extraordinary quirk of circumstance her mother was Cornish, or so she claims. And gently bred into the bargain.”
Wellington whistled. “A gently bred Englishwoman bedded with a notorious brigand! It's beyond belief” “I agree. But why would she invent such a tale?” Wellington scratched his long, bony nose. “No reason that I can think of”
Julian shrugged his own incomprehension. He strode to the door and opened it. “Violette.”
Tamsyn slid off the windowsill and came over to the door, leaving her empty glass on the brigade-major's desk. She cast the colonel a sideways glance as she brushed past him into the presence of the commander in chief
Wellington inclined his head in a slight bow of greeting, his eyes running over the small figure in her shabby, mud-splattered britches and boots. She still wore her bandolier, her rifle slung over her shoulder, the knife at her belt. And yet, despite this, he thought there was something almost forlorn about her. She seemed very young and very alone as she stood there regarding him with an indefinable air of challenge.
“I understand you have something to sell me,” he stated.
“If the price is right,” she agreed.
“And what is your price?”
Tamsyn shook her head. “Forgive me, but I'd like time to rest before we begin to negotiate. I don't know as yet exactly what you wish me to tell you.”
She cast St. Simon another sidelong glance, one so redolent of sensual languor that it took his breath away. “Perhaps the colonel could show me where I may rest for a while.”
Abruptly his body sang with memory, his blood flowing hot and swift. God's grace, but she could become an addiction.
He had to get away from her, from the dangerous temptation in those wicked violet eyes, in that lean, compact little body.
He'd brought the girl in, his task was over. How Wellington conducted the negotiations was none of his business.
“You'll have to excuse me, I must return to my brigade,” he said frigidly, turning to leave. As he did so, the girl suddenly swayed on her feet, her hand reaching blindly for something to hold on to.
“What is it?” He'd reached her in one stride, encircling her with his arm. Immediately she leaned into him, a tiny, vulnerable figure against his own physical breadth.
Tamsyn closed her eyes, keeping her head bowed against his tunic to hide her satisfaction. Cecile hadn't been exaggerating about the English gentleman’s foolish chivalry. She wanted Lord St. Simon at her side throughout her stay in Elvas, and she was quite willing to resort to trickery to achieve that purpose.
“What is it?” he repeated. “Are you ill?”
“I'm just very tired,” she said, her voice weak. “I'm sorry… so silly of me, I feel quite faint.”
“Come to the fire.” Wellington was all concern and consideration. “Take a glass of wine, that'll revive you.” He poured a glass, looking worriedly over his shoulder as the colonel half carried the girl to a chair by the fire.
“Here we are.” Wellington handed her the glass.
“Drink it down, now… that's the ticket.” He nodded approvingly as obediently she sipped.
She raised her head and smiled at him, a faint, tremulous little smile. “So kind… thank you, sir.”
Julian was still leaning over her, one arm at her back.
Suddenly he withdrew it as if he'd been scalded. The little Diablillo was up to her tricks again, he was convinced of it. He moved away and stood resting one arm along the mantelpiece, regarding the drooping, bravely smiling bandit with a sardonic glare. What the devil was she up to?
“Julian, we must find her a comfortable billet at once. I'll ask young Sanderson what he can come up with.” Wellington bustled to the door to consult with the brigade-major, whose main task was to fix and contrive and organize for his commanding officer, however bizarre the circumstances.