Julian was discussing with his company commanders the procedure for the brigade's attack on the San Vicente bastion. They would not be part of the main assault, but a flanking secondary assault made simultaneously with the main attack, intended to distract attention and divert French forces from the breaches.
The ensign, riding in great haste through the neat rows of tents, drew raised eyebrows as he approached the group of men clustered around a map spread on a rough planking table outside St. Simon's tent.
“Your pardon, Colonel, sir.” The ensign leaped from his mount, offering a sketchy salute. “The commander wishes you to report to headquarters at your earliest convenience.”
“Yesterday, in other words,” Frank said with a grin, straightening from the map.
Julian stood, frowning. What could possibly be so important that Wellington would tear him away from his brigade on the eve of battle? The answer was a red flag waving in his brain. La Violette. Whatever this was, the half-breed brigand was behind it. And by the living God, she was going to understand once and for all that he could not be pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard!
“Dobbin! My horse!” He disappeared into his tent on the bellowed instruction, leaving his officers to exchange glances of surprise. He emerged in a minute, buckling his sword belt, thunderclouds massed on the broad forehead beneath the unruly lock of red-gold hair, his bright eyes darting around his assembled staff like fire-tipped arrows.
“I'll be no more than an hour. Major O'Connor, I want that assault plan drawn up for when I return.” Impatiently, he took the reins of his horse from Dobbin and swung into the saddle.
“Yes, sir,” Tim muttered. Something was awry.
Julian rarely pulled rank and was not given to taking his ill temper out on his subordinates; it was one reason his men would follow him into hell, and the competition for a place on his staff was always fierce. Lord St. Simon was one of the youngest colonels in the armies of the Peninsular, but older men were as eager to serve under him as were his peers.
“I'll lay odds that that Violette is behind this,” Frank observed, stretching. “Julian don't care for her above half, and if she's pulling his string, the fur will fly, you mark my words.”
“Can't see a Spanish brigand getting the better of the Peer, let alone St. Simon,” Captain Deerbourne observed. “And if she's playing tricks today of all days, she's a fool.”
All eyes went as one to the walls of Badajos, shrouded in the smoke from the bombardment.
Julian cantered toward Elvas, seething. The sight of La Violette sitting on a rock on the Portuguese side of the pontoon bridge did nothing to placate him. It was as clear as day she was waiting for him, and therefore that she was responsible for this summons.
Tamsyn had indeed been waiting for him. She guessed he would not be in the best of tempers and summoned up her most charming smile, rising to meet him as he walked his mount across the swaying bridge.
“Good morning, milord colonel.” Hastily, Tamsyn stepped into his path when it rather looked as if he was going to ride straight past her. “I'm so happy to see you.” Shielding her gaze from the sun, she squinted up at him, a smile crinkling the golden skin around her eyes, her hair almost white in the sunlight. “How nice that your work did bring you into Elvas, after all.”
Julian's fingers twitched on his reins as he imagined placing them tightly around the slender column of her throat rising out of the opened white collar of her shirt… and slowly squeezing… And then he imagined his fingers sliding up behind her ears, those little shells lying flat against the side of her head, tickling in the tender skin behind…
“Get up!” he ordered curtly. “I assume we're going to the same place.” Leaning down, he extended his hand. She took it without demur, put her foot on his boot, and sprang upward, with an agile twist landing on the saddle in front of him.
“Yes, I believe we are,” she said cheerfully, leaning back against him so that he could feel the heat of her skin through her thin shirt. “It's certainly very convenient this way.”
“And as we know, you order everything to your own convenience,” he observed acidly.
“I suppose you might think that,” Tamsyn said after judicious reflection. “But you don't really know me as yet.”
“Oh, believe me, Violette, there's going to be no 'as yet,’” he declared with savage emphasis. “This is as familiar as we get.”
“If you say so.” She sounded perfectly untroubled by his statement; it was as if she were humoring a fractious child. Julian almost tipped her off his saddle at her tone.
“So the attack is to be tonight,” she said in a different tone. “You won't wish to remain long away from your brigade, but my business shouldn't take long.”
“Oh, I'm relieved to hear it, but you mustn't hurry yourself on my account. I'm certain the storming of Badajos can await your pleasure.”
Tamsyn swivelled round to look up at him. “Don't be petulant, milord colonel. It doesn't suit you, and it's not in the least convincing.”
His jaw dropped, and inadvertently he kicked his mount's flanks. The horse broke into a startled gallop, and Tamsyn, unbalanced already by her turned position, reeled on her perch.
“Hell and the devil!” Julian grabbed at her, hauling her back with one hand as he drew on the reins with his other, bringing his horse under control. “Just hold your tongue, would you?” he gritted. “It'll be a damn sight safer all round.”
“Yes, milord colonel,” Tamsyn murmured with a demure smile, allowing her body to rest against him again.
Julian wondered why he wanted to laugh. It struck him as the impulse of a bedlamite in present circumstances, but there was something about her mischief that invited-no, challenged-him to a response. It was almost as if she were saying she wasn't fooled by his attitude, that she knew he was enjoying their unorthodox proximity as much as she was if he'd only allow himself to acknowledge it.
They left his horse in the stable yard at the rear of Wellington's headquarters and entered by the outside stairs again. “He's waiting for you, Colonel.” Sanderson hastened to open the door onto the commander in chiefs sanctum.
“Oh, good. You're both here.” Wellington stood up from his desk, his expression curt. “I'm sorry for this, Julian, but La Violette insists that you must be part of these negotiations.”
“So I assumed, sir.” Julian regarded Tamsyn with ill disguised resentment. “Very well, you've got what you wanted, now let's get on with it. I've more important things to do with my time this morning than humoring the mercenary spawn of a bloody brigand.”
Wellington hid his astonishment at this brutal speech.
A man didn't speak like that to a mere acquaintance, let alone a stranger.
Tamsyn, however, seemed unconcerned. “Yes, I understand you're both busy, but the timing of this business was not of my choice, I'll have you remember, milord colonel. I came here under your escort.”
“Having delayed us by two days,” he snapped.
“Now, what do you want, girl?”
Tamsyn shrugged and sat down uninvited on a chair before the desk, crossing her legs, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. “Very well, to points. I will give you the information you desire, my lord, except that about the partisan armories. The condition of their weapons is not mine to reveal. They will tell you what they wish you to know. I'll also draw for you a detailed map of the mountain passes El Baron used between Spain and France. Some of them are very narrow and treacherous, but I daresay you'll discover that for yourself. They're not, to my knowledge, known to the French.”
“Good… good,” Wellington said, rubbing his hands. “This is all very good… very useful.” He glanced at St. Simon. “Don't you agree, Julian?”
“Oh, yes,” Julian agreed. “Very useful.” He stood against the door, his arms folded, his eyes brightly sardonic as they rested on Tamsyn. “And what do you want of us, brigand?”