“Stop gloating and save your breath,” Julian ordered, although his own lips twitched at the image of the usually immaculate colonel with his waxed mustache standing in his drawers and his desecrated tunic trying to describe his encounter in the latrine.
A bullet whined over their heads, and suddenly all desire to laugh abandoned them. They were drawing close to the outskirts of the wood where the colonel's men awaited them, but close wasn't good enough with bullets clipping one's ears..
Tamsyn veered sideways, dragging the colonel with her, pushing through what looked to him to be an impenetrable tangle of prickly bushes, but somehow a path revealed itself, although the bushes tore at their clothes.
Then they broke free into the clearing. The sergeant, hearing the uproar, had the twenty men of the Sixth mount; swords in their hands, ready to charge whatever might come at them. Tamsyn scrambled onto Cesar's back just as Gabriel crashed through the undergrowth, his broadsword in his hands. He raised a hand in greeting, his expression as benign and untroubled as always, and swung onto his own charger.
“The men are spoiling for a fight, sir,” the sergeant said, stroking the hilt of his sword. “Reckon they deserve their fun.”
Colonel St. Simon shook his head. “There'll be fighting aplenty at Badajos.” He wheeled his horse, ordering his men forward with an upraised hand.
The cavalcade galloped from the clearing just as a small group of pursuing French burst through, but they were on foot and could do nothing but watch in frustration as their quarry disappeared into the darkness.
St. Simon drew level with Tamsyn's milk-white Arabian. He noticed that she had a long scratch on her cheek from the thorny bushes they'd encountered on their retreat, but it didn't seem to bother her.
How the hell did she manage to claim kinship with some Cornish family? It was the most extraordinary thing, if true. He caught himself looking for signs of English blood in her complexion. She didn't have the olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes of the typical Spaniard; but fair skin, pale hair, and violet eyes, while more typically English, were not unheard of among Spanish families. On balance, there was nothing in her appearance to confirm or deny her claim. This hybrid had inherited some vigorous characteristics from somewhere, though, characteristics more likely to be associated with the robber baron than some demure English maiden… ruthlessness and arrogance, to name but two.
“I trust you're satisfied that I've fulfilled my side of our bargain?” he said with an ironic twist of his mouth.
“Perfectly, milord colonel,” she responded. “And don't pretend you didn't enjoy it, because I could see how your eyes were twinkling.”
“I'm very sure my eyes never twinkle,” the colonel said, revolted at such an image.
“Oh, but they do,” she assured him with a grin, her perfect teeth glimmering in the moonlight. “You've just never been looking in a mirror at the right moment.”
There seemed no adequate response to this, so he changed the subject. “I'll rest the horses when it's absolutely necessary, but other than that, I don't intend to stop until we reach Elvas.”
“Cesar has a great deal of stamina,” she said placidly. “And he was well rested in Cornichet's camp.”
“You, on the other hand, are very short of sleep,” he observed.
“I can sleep in the saddle. I've often done so.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Don't worry, milord colonel. I'm perfectly prepared to uphold my end of the bargain. And I've never yet dropped out of the line of march.”
Once again he could detect the currents of energy surging through the slim, upright figure. She was radiating purpose and determination, and he was instantly uneasy. Whenever he'd sensed that determined energy before, La Violette had been up to no good.
Chapter Five
THE STEADY BOOMING OF THE GUNS BESIEGING THE WALLS OF the Spanish town of Badajos drowned all other sound as the cavalcade approached the town standing on a hill in the midst of a flat plain. The sky was metallic, clouds hanging low over the gray earth, creating a uniform colourlessness, broken only by the scarlet tunics of the cavalrymen.
Julian, riding ahead of the troop, was watching Gabriel and Violette, as usual riding off to one side on slightly higher ground. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their gestures it seemed they were engaged in some altercation. The girl was gesticulating fiercely, her body, fluid in the saddle as she made her points. The giant Gabriel in contrast seemed to exude a rocklike obstinacy, occasionally shaking his head in a sharp, brief negative.
They were a two-hour ride from headquarters in the Portuguese border town of Elvas, and Julian would be bringing in his flower just within the five days he'd set himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't bringing in a submissive, intimidated prisoner ready to have her petals plucked, but a vigorous, self-determining mercenary who might be induced to sell her secrets, but certainly wouldn't meekly divulge them for the asking. It would be interesting to see what Wellington made of her… and of his colonel's part in the play.
Julian grimaced. He'd have to find an explanation for how he'd lost his prisoner and had to agree to a negotiated settlement. The truth was far too mortifying. He could only hope that the brigand would keep her mouth shut about that riverside madness.
He became aware that the two were cantering toward him, Gabriel was not looking happy; the girl's expression was neutral. They reached him and turned their horses to ride alongside him.
“While I'm gone, I shall hold you responsible for the bairn, Englishman,” Gabriel announced gruffly, his hand, in what seemed to Julian very pointed fashion, resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Never you mind, but you're responsible, mark that well.”
Julian shook his head with a half laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to be responsible for the actions of La Violette? Good God, man, I know my limitations.”
“Not her actions, but her safety,” Gabriel declared before Tamsyn could voice her own indignation.
“And I suppose it doesn't occur to you that one has something to do with the other?” Julian said acidly.
“I am responsible for my own actions,” Tamsyn said impatiently. “And my own safety, Gabriel, you're being an old woman.”
“El Baron left your safety in my hands.” There was a mulish set to the giant's mouth. “And if y'are going off on this frolic on your own, little girl, then I'll keep faith with your father as I see fit.” He glared at St. Simon. “So, English Colonel, any harm comes to one hair of her head, and I'll cleave your head from your shoulders.”
Tamsyn raised her eyes heavenward. “No harm is going to come to me in the English headquarters, Gabriel.”
“No, that I'll guarantee,” Julian said, deciding to ignore Gabriel's extremely unfriendly threat. “For as long as she's a guest of headquarters. But if she steps outside Elvas, then it's out of my hands. I'm no nursemaid.”
“And I don't need one,” Tamsyn snapped. “Or a bodyguard. Do be off now, Gabriel. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back.”
“And I've your word you'll not move from Elvas until I return?” He glowered, clearly very unhappy.
“You have it.” She leaned over and lightly brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her smile soft, her eyes warm. “Don't fret, now. I'll be quite safe, and you know this has to be done.”
Gabriel sighed. “If you say so, little girl.” He wheeled his charger and cantered away, raising a hand in farewell.
“Poor Gabriel, he really doesn't want to go,” Tamsyn said, still with that fond smile. “He can't bear to let me out of his sight, not since…” She stopped, her eyes clouding, the smile vanishing.