Читать книгу The Captain's Forbidden Miss - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 7

Chapter Three

Josie hitched up her skirts and ran up the worn stone stairs within the monastery. She could not help but remember the last time she had made this journey. Only yesterday afternoon, and already it seemed a lifetime ago. This time she was alone with only the echo of her own footsteps for company. She reached the top of the stairs, and, hesitating there, braced herself to see once more the horror of what lay not so very far beyond. Her hand clutched upon the banister, tracing the bullet-gouged wood. Then she walked slowly and steadily towards the room in which the 60th had made its last stand.

The doorway was open; the wood remnants that had formed the once sturdy door had been tidied to a pile at the side. Blood splatters marked the walls and had dried in pools upon the floor. The smell of it still lingered in the room, despite the great portal of a window within the room and the lack of a door. Of her father and those of his men that had fought so bravely there was no sign. Josie stared, and stared some more. Their bodies were gone. Their weapons were gone. Their pouches of bullets and powder were gone. Only the stain of their blood remained.

She backed out of the room, retraced her steps down the stairs and peeped into the great hall. The rabbit stew still hung in the corner above the blackened ashes of the fire. The stone floor flags were stained with blood. Yet here, as in the room upstairs, there were no bodies. She turned, moving silently, making her way through to the back and the stables. The two horses were no longer there; nor were the donkeys. Of the supplies there was no trace.

Josie’s heart began to race. Her feet led her further out on to the land that had once been the monastery’s garden. And there they were.

She stopped, her eyes moving over the mounds of freshly dug earth. At the front, one grave stood on its own, distinct from the others by virtue of its position. She moved forwards without knowing that she did so, coming to stand by that single grave. Only the wind sounded in the silent, sombre greyness of the morning light. For a long time Josie just stood there, unaware of the chill of the air or the first stirrings that had begun to sound from the Frenchmen’s camp. And for the first time she wondered if perhaps her father had been right, and that Captain Dammartin was not, after all, a man completely without honour.

It was not difficult to trace Josie’s path. Several of his men had seen the girl go into the monastery. No one challenged her. No one accosted her. Some knew that she was the English Lieutenant Colonel’s daughter. Others thought, as had the sentries, that she was now their captain’s woman. The misconception irked Dammartin, almost as much as the thought of her escape had done. Yet he knew that it was not the prospect of escape that had led her back to the monastery.

He found her kneeling by her father’s grave.

Dammartin stood quietly by the stables, watching her. Her fair hair was plaited roughly in a pigtail that hung down over her back and her skin was pale. Her head was bowed as if in prayer so that he could not see her face. She wore no shawl, and Dammartin could see that her figure was both neat and slender. He supposed she must be cold.

Her dress was dark brown and of good quality, but covered in dirt and dust and the stains of ot hers’ blood. The boots on her feet were worn and scuffed, hardly fitting for a Lieutenant Colonel’s daughter, but then holding the 8th at bay with a single rifle was hardly fitting for such a woman, either. He watched her, unwilling to interrupt her grieving, knowing what it was to lose a father. So he stood and he waited, and never once did he take his eyes from Josephine Mallington.

Josie felt Captain Dammartin’s presence almost as soon as he arrived, but she did not move from her kneeling. She knew that she would not pass this way again and she had come to bid her father and his men goodbye in the only way she knew how, and she was not going to let the French Captain stop her. Only when she was finished did she get to her feet. One last look at the mass expanse of graves, and then she turned and walked towards Captain Dammartin.

She stopped just short of him, looking up to see his face in the dawning daylight. His hair was a deep, dark brown that ruffled beneath the breeze. Despite the winter months, his skin still carried the faint colour of the sun. The ferocity of the weather had not left him unmarked. Dammartin’s features were regular, his mouth hard and slim, his nose strong and straight. The daylight showed the scar that ran the length of his left cheek in stark clarity. It lent him a brooding, sinister look and she was glad that she was much more in control of herself this morning.

‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said, and she could see that his eyes were not black as she had thought last night, but the colour of clear, rich honey.

‘Captain Dammartin.’ She glanced away towards the graves, and then back again at him. ‘Thank you.’ She spoke coolly but politely enough.

A small tilt of his head served as acknowledgement.

‘After what you said…I did not think…’ Her words trailed off.

‘I was always going to have the men buried. They fought like heroes. They deserved an honourable burial. We French respect bravery.’ There was an almost mocking tone to his voice, implying that the British had no such respect. ‘And as for your father…’ He left what he would have said unfinished.

Beyond the monastery she could hear the sound of men moving. French voices murmured and there was the smell of fires being rekindled.

They looked at one another.

‘What do you intend to do with me?’

‘You are Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’ His expression did not change and yet it seemed that his eyes grew darker and harder. ‘You will be sent to General Massena’s camp at Santarém until you can be exchanged for a French prisoner of war.’

She gave a nod of her head.

‘You may be assured that, unlike some, we do not ride roughshod over the rules of warfare or the protection that honour should provide.’ His face was hard and lean, all angles that smacked of hunger and of bitterness.

It seemed to Josie that Captain Dammartin disliked her very much. ‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’

He made some kind of noise of reply that said nothing. ‘If you wish to eat, do so quickly. We ride within the hour and you will leave before that, travelling with the escort of Lieutenant Molyneux.’

Side by side, without so much as another word between them, Josephine Mallington and Pierre Dammartin made their way back down into the village and the French soldiers’ camp.

‘What were you playing at, Pierre?’ Major La Roque demanded.

Dammartin faced the Major squarely. ‘I wanted his surrender, sir.’

‘Foy is asking questions. What am I supposed to tell him? That it took one of my captains almost two hours to overcome twenty-five men, without artillery, holed up in a ramshackle village. Given our fifty dragoons, seventy chasseurs and four hundred infantrymen, it does not look good for you, Pierre. Why did you not just storm the bloody monastery straight away like I told you?’

‘I wanted to interrogate him. I would have thought that you, of all people, would understand that.’

‘Of course I do, but this mission is vital to the success of the Army of Portugal and we have lost a day’s march because of your actions. Not only that, but your men failed to catch the British messengers that were deployed! Only the fact that you are my godson, and Jean Dammartin’s son, has saved you from the worst of Foy’s temper. Whether it will prevent him from mentioning the débâcle to Bonaparte remains to be seen.’

Dammartin gritted his teeth and said nothing.

‘I know what you are going through, Pierre. Do you think I am not glad that Mallington is dead? Do you think that I, too, do not wish to know what was going on in that madman’s mind? Jean was like a brother to me.’

‘I am sorry, sir.’

La Roque clapped his hand against Dammartin’s back. ‘I know. I know, son. Mallington is now dead. For that at least we should be glad.’

Dammartin nodded.

‘What is this I hear about an English girl?’

‘She is Mallington’s daughter. Lieutenant Molyneux will take her back to General Massena’s camp this morning.’

‘I will not have any of our men put at risk because of Mallington’s brat. These hills are filled with deserters and guerrillas. We cannot afford to lose any of the men. The child will just have to come with us to Ciudad Rodrigo. Once we are there, we can decide what to do with her.’

‘Mademoiselle Mallington is not a child, she is—’

But La Roque cut him off, with a wave of the hand. ‘It does not matter what she is, Pierre. If you jeopardise this mission any further, Foy will have your head and there will not be a damn thing I can do to save you. See to your men. Emmern will lead through the pass first. Fall in after him. Be ready to leave immediately.’ The Major looked at Dammartin. ‘Now that Mallington is dead, things will grow easier for you, Pierre, I promise you that.’

Dammartin nodded, but he took little consolation in his godfather’s words. Mallington being dead did not make anything better. Indeed, if anything, Dammartin was feeling worse. Now, he would never know why Mallington had done what he did. And there was also the added complication of his daughter.

Whatever he was feeling, Dammartin had no choice but to leave the house that Major La Roque had commandeered in the valley and return to Telemos.

Josie was standing by the side of the window in the little empty room as she watched Dammartin ride back into the village. She knew it was him, could recognise the easy way he sat his horse, the breadth of his shoulders, the arrogant manner in which he held his head. Condensed breath snorted from the beast’s nostrils and a light sweat glimmered on its flanks. She wondered what had caused him to ride the animal so hard when it had a full day’s travel before it.

He jumped down, leaving the horse in the hands of a trooper who looked to be little more than a boy, and threaded his way through the men that waited hunched in groups, holding their hands to fires that were small and mean and not built to last.

Even from here she could hear his voice issuing its orders.

The men began to move, kicking dust onto the fires, fastening their helmets to their heads and gathering up the baggage in which they had packed away their belongings and over which they had rolled their blankets. He walked purposefully towards the cottage, his face stern as if he carried with him news of the worst kind.

She watched him and it seemed that he sensed her scrutiny, for his gaze suddenly shifted to fix itself upon her. Josie blushed at having being caught staring and drew back, but not before he had seen her. Her cheeks still held their slight wash of colour when he entered the room.

‘Mademoiselle Mallington, we are leaving.’

Her hands smoothed down the skirts of her dress in a nervous gesture.

He noticed that the worst of the dirt had been brushed from her dress and that she had combed and re-plaited her hair into a single, long, tidy pigtail that hung down her back. He moved to take up his baggage, then led her out into the sunlight and across the village through which her father and his men had run and fired their rifles and died. The French dragoons around ceased their murmuring to watch her, wanting to see the woman who had defied the might of the 8th to stand guard over her dying father.

She followed him until they came to the place she had seen him leave his horse. The boy still held the reins. Dammartin handed him the baggage and the boy threw them over the chestnut’s rump and strapped them into place. Beside the large chestnut was a smaller grey. He gestured towards it.

‘You will find Fleur faster than a donkey.’ Dammartin took a dark blue cloak from the boy and handed it to Josie. ‘There was a portmanteau of women’s clothes alongside Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s. I assumed that they were yours.’

Her fingers clutched at the warmth of the wool. She touched it to her nose, breathing in faint lavender and rosemary, the familiar scent of her own portmanteau and its sachets that she had sown what seemed an eternity ago on sunny days at home in England. The last time she had worn this cloak her father had been alive, and twenty-seven others with him. She still could not believe that they were dead.

‘It is my cloak, thank you, Captain Dammartin,’ she said stiffly, and draped the material around her.

‘We have not a side-saddle.’

‘I can ride astride.’

Their eyes held for a heartbeat before she moved quickly to grasp her skirts and, as modestly as she could manage, she placed her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up on to the grey horse.

The troopers cast appreciative gazes over Josie’s ankles and calves, which, no matter how much she pulled at and rearranged her skirts, refused to stay covered. Several whistles sounded from the men, someone uttered a crudity. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and kept her gaze stubbornly forward.

‘Enough,’ Dammartin shouted at his men in French. ‘Look to your horses. We leave in five minutes.’

Another officer on horseback walked over to join them, his hair a pale wheaty brown beneath the glint of his helmet.

Dammartin gave the man a curt nod of the head before speaking. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington, this is Lieutenant Molyneux. Lieutenant, this is Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’

Molyneux removed his helmet, and still seated firmly in his saddle, swept her a bow. ‘Mademoiselle.’

Dammartin frowned at his lieutenant.

Josie looked from the open friendliness on the handsome young lieutenant’s face to the brooding severity on his captain’s, and she was glad that she would be making the journey to Massena’s camp in Lieutenant Molyneux’s company rather than that of Captain Dammartin. Dammartin looked at her with such dislike beneath his thin veneer of civility that she was under no illusions as to his feelings towards her. Still, there were formalities to be observed in these situations, and she would not disgrace her father’s name by ignoring them.

‘Goodbye, Captain Dammartin.’

‘Unfortunately, mademoiselle, this is no goodbye.’

Her eyes widened.

‘You travel with us.’

‘But you said…’ She glanced towards Lieutenant Molyneux.

The lieutenant gave a small, consolatory smile and said, ‘I am afraid, mademoiselle, that there has been a change of plan.’ He dropped back, so that it seemed to Josie that he was abandoning her to Dammartin.

Dammartin’s face was unreadable.

‘Am I to be exchanged?’

‘Eventually,’ said Dammartin.

‘Eventually? And in the meantime?’

‘You are a prisoner of the 8th,’ he replied.

A spurt of anger fired within her. ‘I will not ride to act against my own country, sir.’

‘You have no choice in the matter,’ he said curtly.

She stared at him, and the urge to hit him across his arrogant face was very strong. ‘I would rather be sent to General Massena’s camp.’

‘That is my preference also, mademoiselle, but it is no longer an option.’

‘Then release me. I will make my own way to the lines of Torres Vedras.’

‘Tempting though the offer is, I cannot allow you to do so.’

‘Why not?’ she demanded, feeling more outraged by the minute.

‘I have my orders.’

‘But—’

A drum sounded, and a second company of French cavalrymen, not dragoons but Hanoverian Chasseurs, began to ride into the village.

Dammartin shouted an order and his men began to form into an orderly column. The chasseur captain, who was dressed in a similar fashion to Dammartin, but with yellow distinctives on the green of his jacket and a dark fur hat upon his head, drew up beside Dammartin, saluting him. His face broke into a grin as he spoke a more informal greeting.

‘Emmern.’

For the first time Josie saw Dammartin smile. It was a real smile, a smile of affection, not some distortion of his mouth out of irony or contempt. And it changed his whole face so that he looked devastatingly handsome. Shock jolted through her that she could think such a thing and, pushing the thought aside, she forced herself to concentrate on what the two men were discussing. They spoke in rapid French, discussing the land that lay beyond the village, and the quickest and safest method by which their men might traverse it.

‘Foy is like a bear with a sore head this morning.’ Captain Emmern laughed. ‘The delay has not pleased him.’

‘I am aware,’ agreed Dammartin. ‘I will have the joy of reporting to him this evening.’

‘The day has started well, then,’ teased the chasseur.

‘Indeed,’ said Dammartin. ‘It could not get much worse.’

Emmern’s eyes flicked to Josie and the grey on which she sat. ‘I would not look so gloomy if I had spent the night in such pleasant company.’ He inclined his head at Josie in greeting. ‘Come, Pierre, introduce me. Surely you do not mean to keep her all to yourself? I swear, she is utterly delicious.’

Josie felt the blood scald her cheeks. She ignored the chasseur captain, fidgeted with the grey’s reins, and focused on a peculiarly shaped rock high up on the hill to the side.

‘She is Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’ Dammartin’s eyes were cold and his jaw rigid.

Captain Emmern’s brow lifted slightly with surprise. ‘They said there was a woman, but I did not realise that she was his daughter. What the hell could the man have been thinking?’

‘Who knows the workings of a madman’s mind?’ replied Dammartin drily.

Josie’s fists clenched at the Frenchmen’s words of insult. With blazing eyes she glared at them, words of defence for her father crowding in her mouth for release. Yet the suspicion that flashed across Dammartin’s face served as a timely reminder that she must feign ignorance of their conversation.

Dammartin edged his horse closer towards her, his brows lowered. ‘Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?’

Even had she not understood his language, there was no doubting the accusation in his demand. This was dangerous ground, for she realised that by showing her emotions too readily she was in danger of revealing the one advantage that she had over her captors. The Frenchmen would let down their guard and talk easily in front of her if they thought that their words could not be understood by their prisoner. Any information she could glean might be of use, for Josie had every intention of passing on all she could learn to General Lord Wellington. She straightened her back and, squaring her shoulders, faced Dammartin, meeting his penetrating gaze directly.

‘I have not the slightest idea of what you are saying, sir. If you would be so good as to speak in English, then I may be able to answer you.’

Dammartin’s face cracked into a cynical disbelieving smile, yet he switched to English. ‘Do not tell me that you understand not one word of my language, for I will not believe such a ridiculous assertion.’

Josie did her best to appear outraged. ‘Are you suggesting that I am lying?’

‘You have been lying all along, mademoiselle…about that which you know, and that which you do not: the details of your father’s men, his purpose in these hills, his messengers…’

She flinched at that and there was no longer any need for pretence; her outrage was all too real.

‘You are the daughter of a senior officer; your father must have arranged your education. I believe that in England even the lowliest of governesses teach the rudiments of French.’

The heat scalded Josie’s cheeks, and her chest tightened at his words. She might have been fluent in French, but that had nothing to do with governesses and everything to do with her mother. Mama and Papa had been the best of parents, yet she felt Dammartin’s implied criticism as sharp as a knife.

‘What time was there for schooling or governesses following my father around the world on campaign? There is more to education than such formality, and besides, my mother and father ensured that both my brother and I were educated in those matters that are of any importance.’ She negated to mention the truth of the situation.

Silence followed her inferred insult.

Still she did not drop her gaze from his so that she saw his eyes narrow infinitesimally at her words. He twitched the rein between his fingers and the great chestnut horse brought him round to her side.

‘Have a care in what you say, Mademoiselle Mallington. Such words could be construed by some of my countrymen as offensive, and you are hardly in a position to abuse our hospitality.’

‘Hospitality?’ Her eyebrows raised in exaggerated incredulity, and so caught up in her own anger was Josie that she did not notice the scowl line deepen between Dammartin’s brows. ‘You kill my father and his men, you lock me in a cellar for hours on end and interrogate me. Forgive me if I am surprised at your notion of hospitality, sir!’

He leaned in closer until his face was only inches above hers. It seemed to Josie that the angles of his jawline grew sharper and the planes of his cheeks harder, and his eyes darkened with undisguised fury. As awareness dawned of how much bigger he was, of his strength, his overwhelming masculinity, all of Josie’s anger cooled, leaving in its stead the icy chill of fear.

‘I assure you, mademoiselle, that I have been most hospitable in my treatment of you…so far.’ His voice was the quiet purr of a predator. ‘Do you wish me to prove it is so, by demonstrating how very inhospitable I can be?’

Josie’s heart was thumping nineteen to the dozen. She wetted the dryness of her lips, and swallowed against the aridity of her throat. ‘You are no gentleman, sir.’ Still, she forced herself to hold his dark, menacing gaze.

‘And you, no lady.’

She could have argued back. She could have called him the scoundrel that he was, but there was something in his eyes that stopped her, something fierce and impassioned and resolute that shook her to her very core.

‘I ask you, sir, to release me,’ she said, and all of the bravado had gone so that her voice was small and tired. ‘You do not want me as your prisoner any more than I wish to be here. It is madness to drag me all the way to Ciudad Rodrigo. Allowing me to walk away now would be the best solution for us both.’

There was a moment’s silence in which he made no move to pull back from her, just kept his gaze fixed and intent, locked upon her, as a hunter who has sighted his prey. ‘Ciudad Rodrigo?’ he said softly.

Her heart gave a shudder at what she had unintentionally revealed.

‘What else do you know of General Foy’s mission, I wonder?’ His question was as gentle as a caress.

Josie dropped her eyes to stare at the ground, an involuntary shiver rippling through her.

He leaned in closer until she could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek.

Her eyelids closed. The breath stalled in her throat and her fingers gripped tight around the reins, bracing herself for what was to come.

‘Pierre.’ Captain Emmern’s voice sounded, shattering the tight tension that had bound her and Dammartin together in a world that excluded all else.

She opened her eyes and blinked at the chasseur captain, allowing herself to breathe once more.

‘Captain Dammartin,’ said Emmern more formally this time. He looked from Dammartin to Josie and back again with a strange expression upon his face. ‘We should get moving, before the General grows impatient.’

Dammartin gave a nod in reply, then, with a small nudge of his boots against the chestnut’s flank, he and the horse began to move away.

Relief softened the rigidity throughout Josie’s body, so that she felt that she might collapse down against the little mare’s neck and cling on for dear life. She caught her fingers into the coarse hair of the mane, stabilising herself once more now that the danger was receding.

‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he called softly.

She froze at the sound of his voice, saw him turn back to look at her.

‘We shall finish this conversation later.’

She felt the blood drain from her face, and she stared at him aghast, unable to move, unable to utter a single word in response.

‘I promise that most solemnly.’ And with a twitch of his reins he was finally gone.

* * *

Foy’s column with its cavalry detachment travelled far that day, twenty miles across terrain that was rocky and high and inhospitable. The ground was frozen hard beneath their feet and great chunks of ice edged the rivulets of streams that carved passageways down the hillsides. And in all the hours that passed, Josie could not find a way to escape the officers of Bonaparte’s 8th Dragoons.

She had hoped that she might be able to fall back or just slip away unnoticed, but there was no chance of that. The 8th Dragoons were neatly sandwiched between Emmern’s Hanoverian Chasseurs in front and a whole regiment of French infantry to the rear. And were that not bad enough, Lieutenant Molyneux rode nearby, offering occasional polite conversational words, checking on her welfare and ensuring that she was served the hard bread rolls and wine when they stopped to water the horses. There seemed no way out. Yet when Josie looked in front to where Dammartin rode, she knew that escape was an absolute necessity.

Dammartin did not look back at her and that was something at least for which she felt relief. His attention was focused upon his men, on the ragged drops that fell away from the sides of the narrow rough roads along which they trotted, and the precipices so high above. If a trooper wandered too close to the edge, Dammartin barked a warning for him to get back in column. If they moved too slowly, one look from Dammartin was enough to hurry them onwards.

Throughout the long hours of riding he ignored her, but his promise lay between them as threatening as the man himself. He would interrogate her in earnest. She knew it with a certainty, had seen it in his eyes. She thought of the danger that emanated from him, of the darkness, a formidable force waiting to be unleashed… upon her. She trembled at the prospect of what he might do to her, knowing that for all her bravado, for all her own tenacity, he was far stronger. He would lead her in circles until she no longer knew what she was saying. Hadn’t she already inadvertently revealed that her father had known of Foy’s destination? What more would she tell the French Captain?

The thoughts whirred in her head, churning her gut with anticipation. No matter her father’s instruction or the promise she had made him, she knew that she had to get away, to somehow make her way back towards the British lines. She would be safe from Dammartin there, and she would ensure that the news of Foy’s mission had reached Wellington. Papa would have understood, she told herself.

Having made up her mind, Josie no longer looked ahead to the breadth of Dammartin’s shoulders or the fit of his green dragoon jacket across his back and, instead, focused every last ounce of her attention on a way of evading her captor.

They had reached the site of their camp in a small valley between Cardigos and Sobreira Formosa before the opportunity that Josie had been waiting for arose. Most of Dammartin’s dragoons were busy pitching the tents. The air rang with the sound of small iron-tipped mallets driving narrow iron tent pegs into the frozen soil. Those troopers not helping with the tents, gathered wood and lit fires upon which they placed kettles and pots to boil, cooking that evening’s rations. All along the massive camp both cavalrymen and infantrymen were orderly and disciplined and—busy. Even Molyneux seemed to have disappeared.

Josie knew that this was the best chance of escape she would get. She stood were she was, eyes scanning around, seeking the one man above all that she sought to evade, but of Dammartin there was no sign, and that could only be construed as a very good omen.

Slowly, inconspicuously, she edged towards a great clump of scrubby bushes at the side of the camp until she could slip unseen behind them. And then, hitching up her skirts in one hand, Josie started to run.

Dammartin was making his way back from reporting to Major La Roque and all he could think about was the wretched Mallington girl. She was too defiant, too stubborn and too damned courageous. When she looked at him, he saw the same clear blue eyes that had looked out from Mallington’s face. A muscle twitched in Dummartn’s jaw and he gritted his teeth.

The old man was dead and yet little of Dammartin’s anger had dissipated. His father had been avenged, and still Dammartin’s heart ached with a ferocity that coloured his every waking thought. All of the hurt, all of the rage at the injustice and loss remained. He knew he had been severe with girl. She was young, and it was not her hand that had fired the bullet into his father’s chest. He had seen that she was frightened and the pallor of her face as she realised her mistake over Ciudad Rodrigo, and even then he had not softened. Now that he was away from her he could see that he had been too harsh, but the girl knew much more than she was saying, and if Dummartin was being forced to drag her with him all the way to Ciudad Rodrigo, he was damn well going to get that information—for the sake of his country, for the sake of his mission…for the sake of his father.

The dragoon camp was filled with the aroma of cooking—of boiling meat and toasting bread. Dammartin’s stomach began to growl as he strode past the troopers’ campfires, his eyes taking in all that was happening in one fell swoop. Lamont had a pot lid in one hand and was stirring at the watery meat with a spoon in the other. Molyneux was sharing a joke with a group of troopers. The prickle of anticipation whispered down Dammartin’s spine, for Josephine Mallington was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where is Mademoiselle Mallington?’ The stoniness of his voice silenced Molyneux’s laughter. Lamont replaced the pot lid and spoon and got to his feet. The troopers glanced around uneasily, noticing the girl’s absence for the first time.

A slight flush coloured Molyneux’s cheeks. ‘She was here but a moment since, I swear.’

‘Check the tents,’ Dammartin snapped at his lieutenant, before turning to Lamont. ‘Have the men search over by the latrines.’

With a nod, the little sergeant was up and shouting orders as he ran.

Dammartin knew instinctively that the girl would not be found in either of these places. He strode purposefully towards the horses. None were missing.

Dante was saddled by the time that Molyneux reappeared.

‘The tents are empty, Captain, and Lamont says that there’s no sign of her down by the latrines.’ He bent to catch his breath, tilting his head up to look at Dammartin. ‘Do you want us to organise a search party?’

‘No search party,’ replied Dammartin, swinging himself up on to Dante’s back. ‘I go alone.’

‘She cannot have got far in such little time. She is on foot and the harshness of this countryside…’ Molyneux let the words trail off before dropping his voice. ‘Forgive me, but I did not think for a minute that she would escape.’

Dammartin gave a single small nod of his head, acknowledging his lieutenant’s apology. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington is more resourceful than we have given her credit for.’

‘What will happen if you do not find her? Major La Roque did not—’

‘If I do not find her,’ Dammartin interrupted, ‘she will die.’ And with a soft dig of his heels against Dante’s flank he was gone.