“Oh. Are there bandits on this Bodmin Moor then?” Her expression livened considerably. '
“We call them highwaymen,” he said with an arid smile. “But they're as savage and ruthless a breed as any mountain brigand or robber baron.”
Tamsyn decided to let that pass. “Gabriel has my weapons. I'll fetch them.” She went off immediately, her step much crisper at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven this dreary journey.
Julian stamped his feet on the cobbles and turned up the collar of his cloak, running a mental check over his own weapons. “Into Bodmin and out of this world” was what the locals said when preparing to cross the bleak, windswept moor. Apart from his school years he d grown up at Tregarthan, the St. Simon family estate overlooking the River Fowey, and considered himself as much a Cornishman as the landlord of this Launceston inn, steeped in the lores and customs of the county. And he loved every blade of grass, every flower of the hedgerow. He took pleasure in the thought of getting his hands on the reins of his estate again, of walking around his house, riding over his lands. If he was truly honest, there would be some compensation for this enforced rustication.
He'd made some progress on Wellington's account in London, presenting to the lords of Westminster the Duke's urgent need for more men and money. They'd listened to him with flattering attention and suggested he return in a month to answer further questions once they'd had a chance to mull over the duke's request. The wheels of government turned very slowly, and Julian had not expected any immediate decisions. He'd written to Wellington with what news he had and was resigned to returning to London in July, when he hoped there'd be more concrete results to impart. He knew this politicking was vital work, but it was dull work, nevertheless, for a man who thrived on the smell and sound of gunfire, the challenges and privations of forced marches, and the quirks and vulgarities, the courage and the foolishness, of the common soldier. Not even the prospect of his own house and land could truly compensate for that loss.
And if it weren't for the bastard spawn of a Spanish robber, he would still be with the army. Wellington would never have sent him on this diplomatic mission if the opportunity hadn't presented itself so forcefully.
Tamsyn was blithely unaware of his reflections as she installed herself in the coach with the shivering Josefa and ran her eye over the chests of gold and jewelry stashed beneath the seats. Their presence made the inside of the vehicle very cramped. Normally this wouldn't trouble anyone, since until today only Josefa had been traveling inside. But Tamsyn couldn't fault the colonel's defensive measures if they were really about to cross wild and dangerous country, so she curled herself into a corner, leaving as much room for the larger figure of Josefa as she could, and checked that her two pistols were primed. Josefa would reload for her if they were attacked.
Gabriel stuck his head through the window. “We'll be off now. You all right in here?”
“How far is it across this moor?” Tamsyn asked. “Don't know.” He withdrew his head. “Colonel, the bairn wants to know how far she needs to travel in the coach.”
“It's twenty-one miles to Bodmin,” Julian said, swinging onto his horse. “After that she can ride if she wishes. It's but twelve miles to Tregarthan from there.”
Tamsyn nodded, satisfied. It was only just past dawn, and they should accomplish thirty-three miles easily by nightfall; they'd been managing forty a day from London along the paved stagecoach roads with frequent changes.
However, as they left the ruined keep and tower of Launceston Castle behind, it became clear that the narrow, rutted track across Bodmin Moor was no stage road. It was an ancient road, known as the Tinners Way, used to carry tin and clay from the mines from Fowey through Bodmin and across the moor into southern England. On either side the dark, rainy land stretched to the horizon, scrawny trees bent double with the force of the gusting wind, stumpy clumps of broom and gorse clinging to the peaty earth. The coachman kept his horses at an easy trot as the track crested steep hills and plunged down again into the flat moorland. The iron wheels churned the wet earth into a sea of mud, and every now and again the chaise would lurch almost to a halt as the wheels became enmired.
When that happened, the coachman cursed and whipped up his horses, glancing anxiously around, his blunderbuss across his knees. On either side of the coach rode Gabriel and Julian, muskets across their saddlebows, pistols at their belts, hat brims down and collars turned up as they faced into the stinging, wind-hurled rain.
They rode in grim silence, ever watchful, but finally came off the moor after a tense five hours, having seen neither hide nor hair of a potential highwayman, or, indeed, of any fellow travelers on this raw day of early summer.
The horses trotted wearily down the steep hill into the center of Bodmin. Tamsyn leaped from the coach with a sigh of relief as they came to a halt in the inn yard. She was feeling queasy from the motion, and there was an ominous tightening around her temples. She looked around through the continuing drizzle at the town, a patchwork of slate-gray roofs and gray stonework climbing up the steep hillside.
The colonel dismounted and came over to her. His eyes were sharp as they rested on her face, noticing the pallor beneath the suntan and the shadows below the almond-shaped eyes.
“Tired?”
“Not really. I feel as if I'm going to puke. It's that coach-I can't abide traveling in that fashion.”
“It was necessary.”
She shrugged. “I didn't see any of your highway robbers, Colonel.”
“The precaution was necessary,” he responded indifferently. “Go into the inn and bespeak a private parlor for us and a luncheon. I'll see about fresh horses.”
“Yes, milord colonel.” She touched her forelock in mock salute.
“You must learn to curtsy, buttercup,” he responded with the nonchalance of before. “Tugging forelocks is appropriate only for grooms, ostlers, and farm laborers. Serving maids curtsy.”
“I am not a maid.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not in any sense of the word.”
He turned from her, ignoring the dangerous flash in her eyes.
Tamsyn chewed her lip in frustration, staring at his departing back, before she turned into the welcome warmth and lamplight of the inn.
The innkeeper made no attempt to hide his astonishment at these new arrivals. The rotund Spanish lady huddled in her shawls and mantillas poured forth a stream of incomprehensible laments that were as incomprehensibly responded to by the giant oak of a man who carried a massive broadsword thrust into the crimson sash at his waist. The diminutive figure of their companion, to his relief, spoke in the king's English with a perfectly ordinary request for a parlor and refreshment. But there was something exotic about her, too. He didn't know whether it was the short hair or the way she walked with an easy, swinging stride quite unlike a woman's walk. Her riding habit seemed conventional enough, but there was something about the way she wore it that was not ordinary, although he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint what it was.
Then Lord St. Simon entered the inn, and the landlord immediately ceased his speculation. He hurried to greet one of the largest landowners in the county, bowing and offering an effusive welcome.
Julian stripped off his gloves, responding to the landlord’s greeting with patient courtesy.
“Show us to a parlor, Sawyer,” he interrupted finally. “It's been the devil of a drive across the moor, and we're famished.”
“Yes, of course, my lord.” The landlord bustled ahead. “And I'll have a bottle of burgundy brought up straightway. I've a fine Aloxe Corton from the Gentlemen’s last run. Would the… the ladies…,” he said resolutely, “care for a dish of tea, perhaps?”
“I'll have a tankard of rum,” Gabriel declared before Julian could reply. “And the woman, too. I've a hole in my gullet the size of a cannon ball. What of you, little girl?”