“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.
“What are you up to?” the colonel demanded softly.
“You're not fooling me with this swooning-maiden act, Violette.”
Tamsyn raised her eyes, her expression hurt. “I don't know what you can mean. I can't even remember when I last slept in a bed. I'm exhausted.”
She had every reason to be, and yet he remained unconvinced.
“Sanderson… a remarkable young fellow… knows just the billet, hard by the hospital.” Rubbing his hands, Wellington came back to the fire. “He says there's a pleasant woman there who'll attend to you, my dear. And when you've rested, you'll dine with me and m'staff.”
His eyes rested on her face, and they were sharp and shrewd despite his apparent geniality. “We'll discuss how we can assist each other a little later.”
“You're too kind, sir,” she said with a weary smile. “Julian, you'll see her settled and bring her back here to dine,” the commander in chief said, suddenly brisk.
“I really should return to my brigade, sir.”
“Yes… yes, of course. But later, man, later.” There was nothing for it. Julian sighed and acceded with a curt nod in Tamsyn's direction. “Come.”
She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, but Lord St. Simon seemed to have lost his chivalrous instincts. He remained standing by the fireplace, his unwavering gaze as sardonic as before. Oh, well, Tamsyn reflected with an inner shrug, she'd achieved what she'd intended for the moment. Wellington regarded her with sympathy rather than hostility, and the colonel was still at her side.
She offered Wellington another feeble smile of thanks and tottered to the door, the colonel on her heels. Her demeanor changed once they were outside, the door firmly closed behind them. She glanced up at her companion with a mischievous wink.
He inhaled sharply, then spun around to address the brigade-major. “Lieutenant, where am I to find this lodging?”
“A widow called Braganza, sir,” Sanderson said.
“The whitewashed cottage beside the hospital. I've sent an orderly to alert her, so she'll be expecting you.” He stared with now unabashed curiosity at Violette. “She speaks only Portuguese. Does… does…”
“Yes, of course I do,” Tamsyn said with a touch of impatience at what struck her as an absurd question. She'd spent her life roaming across the borders of Portugal, Spain, and France.
Julian said nothing, merely strode ahead of her down the stairs and out into the street. Tamsyn had to run to catch up with him. “Don't go so fast, I really am exhausted.”
“You may pick some other gull for your tricks,” he said tautly. “I don't know what the devil you're up to, and I don't give a damn. The sooner I can wash my hands of you, the happier I shall be.”
“Temper, temper,” Tamsyn murmured. “I wish I knew what I'd done to arouse it. It seems most unjust to me, but then I suppose you're one of those people of uncertain temper who vent their frustrations whenever the whim takes them. I've heard of such people, although I count myself fortunate that until now I haven't had many dealings-”
“Have you finished?” He interrupted this meandering muse, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or scream his vexation to the four winds.
“I hadn't,” she said, sounding aggrieved. “But if you don't care for plain speaking… “ She shrugged.
“On the contrary,” he declared, tight-lipped. ''I'm something of an exponent myself Do you wish to hear a little?”
Tamsyn didn't answer. She sidestepped a puddle with an agile leap that made nonsense of her claims to exhaustion and said cheerfully, “That must be the widow's house up ahead on the left. It's the only whitewashed one on the street.”
Senhora Braganza, well accustomed to the sight of women partisans, showed little amazement at Tamsyn's appearance. Insisting they inspect the accommodations, she showed them upstairs to a small whitewashed chamber under the eaves.
“This will do beautifully,” Tamsyn said, interrupting the widow's voluble description of the chamber's amenities. “All I need is a bed. And hot water.”
The widow returned downstairs to see to the water, and Julian, who'd been standing by the window looking out on the street in front of the cottage, said brusquely, ''I'll be on my way.”
“Oh, don't be in such a hurry.” Tamsyn went swiftly to the door, leaning against it, barring his way. She smiled at him. “Why so prudish, milord colonel? We have the time, we have even a bed.”
“I do not have the inclination,” he declared harshly. “Move aside.”
She shook her head, that mischievous smile in her eyes again. She tossed her rifle onto the bed and with a deft movement shrugged off the bandolier, letting it fall to the floor. Then her hands were at her belt and he seemed powerless to move, watching as if only his eyes were alive, imprisoned in a body of stone, as she pushed off her britches and began to unbutton her shirt. The small, perfect breasts were revealed, their rosy crowns pertly erect. She moved away from the door and stepped toward him, her eyes never leaving his face.
He put his hands on her breasts, feeling how they filled his palms. He gazed down at the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath the milk-white skin. The pulse at her throat was beating fast, and the intricate silver locket quivered against her flesh.
Tamsyn didn't move, merely held herself still for his touch as his hands slid down her rib cage, spanned the slender waist, slipped to her back, his fingers insinuating themselves into the waist of her drawers, creeping down over the taut roundness of her buttocks.
“Goddamn it, girl,” he said, his voice husky in the quiet, dim room. “Goddamn it, girl, what are you doing to me?”
“It's more a case of what are you doing to me?” she said as his hands squeezed her backside, pressing her against his loins· where his flesh thrust iron hard against the constraint of his britches.
The sound of heavy footsteps laboring up the wooden stairs outside broke his enchantment. The mist of passion left his bright-blue eyes, and he pulled his hands loose from her skin as if she were a burning brand.