Читать книгу The Price Of Honour - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 5

SHE would go home, Olivia decided, back to England, to cool green glades and soft summer rain, to winter fires and roast beef, even to the censure of her friends and Papa’s anger. Papa. If he could see her now, he would most decidedly tell her ‘I told you so’; that was if he even recognised her as the daughter who had stood in his library three years before and rebelliously stamped her foot at him. She had, she remembered, been dressed in a becoming blue gown of watered silk, which had cost him a pretty penny, but then he had always been the most generous of papas—until she’d defied him.

Now she was wearing an old uniform jacket of Philippe’s over a white blouse and green skirt which had certainly seen better days. On her feet were a pair of French infantry boots, nothing like as good as those worn by the British forces but certainly more serviceable than ladies’ shoes, and on her head was a large straw hat tied down with a scarf. Her face, she had no doubt, was suntanned and dirty, and she was painfully thin. No, he would hardly recognise her.

She smiled to herself as she strode along the narrow pot-holed road, empty except for a bearded brown goat which had wandered down from the mountainside to crop the wayside grass, and a buzzard which tore savagely at the remains of a hare, anxious to have its dinner done before it was interrupted. It looked up as she approached, a juicy morsel hanging from its bloodied beak, but, deciding she was no threat, it resumed its meal.

It was funny how easy it was to lose the knack of thinking constructively, especially when all her thoughts kept coming back to the same thing — it was her own fault she was in the mess she was in; she could blame no one but herself. She would go home and face the music. Would the fact that she had been widowed twice in as many years elicit any sympathy from her father? But was it sympathy she wanted? She had never been one to feel sorry for herself, so why should she expect others to be sorry for her?

Tom Beeston was not a suitable husband for her, Papa had said; he was a nobody and she was rich enough to marry a title; he wanted her to marry a title. Besides, they were both too young to know their own minds on the subject. If she married Tom, she could expect no help from him if things went wrong. Young she had been, but she had also been determined and accustomed to having her own way, and this unexpected opposition had taken her by surprise and strengthened her determination. Married they were. Tom, she discovered within a month of the wedding, was a gambler, and before long was so deep in debt that she was in despair. But he had not been prepared for her to be equally stubborn about refusing to ask her father for help.

At his wits’ end, he had fallen victim to the blandishments of a recruiting sergeant, so what else could she have done, she asked herself, but to stick by him and follow the colours? Not for a moment had she anticipated being lucky in the ballot which would allow her to accompany him abroad a few months later. They had hardly set foot in Portugal when the army, under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, had marched to free Oporto from the occupying French, and two days after that she was a widow for the first time.

It was the usual practice for women in her position to marry one of her late husband’s comrades and carry on as before, but there was no one she liked well enough and she had had enough of the army. In the torrential rain which followed the battle and hampered the British advance, she had tried to make her way back to Oporto, hoping to find a ship’s captain softhearted enough to carry her back to England. Instead she had blundered into the rearguard of the fleeing French troops. They had seen in her an easy target and would have taken their anger and humiliation out on her if Philippe had not arrived to stop them. Not that she had given in without a struggle; she had seized one of their muskets and turned it on them before they had overpowered her, laughing at her furious kicking and scratching.

It was his sense of fair play and his admiration for her courage that made him defend her in the first place, he had told her, but within days he had declared he loved her to distraction and no one would harm her while he was at hand to protect her. He was a lieutenant and very young, lonely too, she suspected, and highly susceptible. She had liked him enough to agree to marry him when the alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but she did not think she had ever been in love with him, any more than she had, on reflection, been in love with Tom.

That had been over a year ago, and since then she had followed the French camp in much the same way as she had followed the British with Tom, living each day as it came and refusing to think of the future. It had been the same the night before; her only thought had to been to escape from the band of guerrilleros who had killed Philippe, not what she would do afterwards. But with the coming of day she knew she had decisions to make.

The land on either side of the road was parched, the grass dried to the colour of ripe wheat which shimmered in a heat haze that made it look as if it were on fire. Behind her the mountain rose to a craggy peak; to her left the ground fell sharply away so that she was looking down on the tops of the pines which covered the lower slopes and partially hid the village in the valley. It was set on either side of a small river which reflected the cobalt-blue of the sky and looked cool and inviting. Should she make her way down there? Would it be safe? The problem was that she did not know if she was in Spain or Portugal, nor whether the area was in French or allied hands.

To the French with whom she had lived for the past year she was English, and without Philippe to protect her she had no idea how they would view her reappearance, even supposing she could find them again. The British would, she was almost sure, look on her as a traitor, and she had no idea what punishment would be meted out for that, but whatever it was she would have to face it. It might be mitigated by the fact that she did have something to tell them. She knew the dispositions and the strength of the French army in the north and that it was unlikely that Marshal Soult, comfortably ensconced in the south, would come to their aid; Philippe had been more than a little indiscreet. But she would say nothing of that until she could speak to the right person, Viscount Wellington himself, if necessary.

The goat made for the hills again as she neared it and the buzzard, replete, soared into the sky. She stopped to watch it go, shading her eyes with her hand, but, alerted by the sound of the clip-clop of a horse behind her, she turned, poised for flight, though there was nowhere to hide. But the rider seemed in no hurry, certainly not as if he was pursuing a fugitive. He came slowly into view over the rise behind her and she stood to one side to allow him to pass. The black stallion, she noticed, was beautiful — in much better shape than its owner.

He wore a dusty red uniform jacket without braid or buttons to denote his rank, if rank he had, though he held his back straight and his head up as if he was used to command. His dark breeches and riding boots, though of good quality, were covered in the grime of many days’ travel. His hair, beneath his shako, was cut very short, and his face, though tanned, was unlined. He could not have been more than thirty, but there was about him an air of detachment, almost as if he cared not whether she was a helpless female or a well-armed enemy soldier. He might have been out for a quiet hack in the English countryside, though a new rifle slung on his saddle struck a jarring note. He seemed indifferent to her, or too exhausted even to bid her good day.

She watched him pass, his hands relaxed on the reins as the horse took him down the steep slope and round the next hairpin bend.

Why had she not hailed him? He might have been able to tell her exactly where she was, how far she was from the allied lines. He might even have offered to take her up. Long gone were the days when she would have been horrified at the very thought of sharing a horse with a complete stranger. But his whole demeanour had discouraged her from speaking, and a British coat meant nothing; it could have been stolen from a body on a battlefield. He could have been a deserter and going away from the British lines, not towards them. She wondered what would happen if he ran into the guerrilleros she had fled from during the night. He would need to be more convincing than Philippe had been.

Poor Philippe! He had been badly wounded at Talavera and they had spent the winter at his home in France while he recovered. His parents had tried to be kind to her for his sake, but she was only too aware that they thought of her as the enemy and she could hardly blame them. Although she had been more than grateful for Philippe’s protection in those terrible days after Tom had died, she had never truly changed sides. Philippe himself had been restless and keen to return to the war, even though his regiment had been all but wiped out and the survivors had been posted to other units. They had arrived back in Spain in July 1810, just in time to be with Napoleon’s army when it took the Spanish border post of Ciudad Rodrigo. The French troops had poured into the town, only to find it bereft of food and supplies.

Foraging parties had been sent out immediately and as the army was unlikely to continue its advance until it had been fed and provisioned — as always by the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside — Philippe had suggested a day out in the hills with a gun; they would shoot themselves a meal, he had said, and it would make a pleasant day out, just the two of them, away from everyone. The idea cost him his life and very nearly hers. And she was not sure yet if she was out of danger.

She blinked hard in an effort to erase the gruesome image of Philippe swinging from the branches of a cork oak, his legs kicking frantically as the life was choked from him. She had not wanted to watch, but her head had been jerked back by the leader of her captors. ‘Too much for you, is it? You watch, madame, you watch and learn.’ He had spoken in French and yet he’d looked no different from the rest of his band. All had been bearded and roughly dressed in goatskin coats and woolly hats and armed to the teeth with knives, swords and stolen muskets. ‘That’s one Frenchman who won’t pull the tail of the leopard, though I could wish it were not his tail being presented to our enemies. It is his teeth we need to see.’ He had moved round to face her. ‘Now what shall we do with madame?’

She had recoiled as he’d advanced on her, which made him laugh. ‘You are afraid of me?’

She had nodded. Ever since she and Philippe had been brought into the camp, she had been struck dumb and had not uttered a word, neither plea nor protest. Had she become so hardened to life in the raw, she asked herself, or was it simply a numbness, which crept over her as kind of self-protection, a notion that if she kept a tight hold of herself she could endure anything?

‘We don’t make war on women.’ He had laughed loudly while his men had looked from one to the other and grinned, though she was sure they had not understood. ‘Women we make love to.’

‘Why do you speak in French?’ she had asked in English, and watched with satisfaction the look of surprise on his swarthy face. ‘That is the language of your enemy.’ She had paused, praying that Philippe would forgive her, then added, ‘And mine.’

‘You are English?’ The lecherous look had left his face as he sat down beside her and leaned against the tree to which she had been tied.

‘Yes. And I thank you for my deliverance from that…’ She had made herself jerk her head towards Philippe, whose futile kicking had ceased. His body hung limp, spiralling slowly as the rope untwisted. ‘I was his prisoner.’

‘When did that happen?’ He had changed to speaking English. ‘And how?’

Better not say Oporto, she had decided, that was too long ago and might arouse his suspicion; better make it more recent. ‘A skirmish,’ she said. ‘A week ago.’

‘You are a camp follower?’

She had drawn herself up and looked into his face with all the dignity she could muster. ‘I am a soldier’s wife.’

‘What regiment?’

Where was Tom’s regiment now? She was not sure, but then the guerrilleros might not know that either. ‘The Twenty-ninth.’

‘Hmm, we shall see.’

‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to take me to the British lines?’

‘You think we have time to spare to escort women about the countryside? No, madam, you must wait on our convenience. Besides, how do we know you are telling the truth?’

‘Would I ask to be taken to the British if I were not?’

‘To save your hide perhaps?’

‘Am I in danger?’ she asked sweetly, wishing they would take Philippe’s body down and bury it decently. ‘You said you did not wage war on women; I ask you to show that chivalry for which Spanish men are renowned and take me to my friends.’

He laughed at her flattery although not taken in by it. ‘Perhaps you are a spy, sent to find out where the troublesome flea is that keeps biting the backside of the French cur. We could not let you take that information back to them.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘It is not unknown for women to do such work.’

‘Not I.’

‘We shall see.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘Keep you here while we find out where you have come from.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Do not worry, madam, we will not touch a hair of your head until we know the truth, but if you are lying…’ He nodded towards Philippe. ‘We will not hesitate to carry out the same punishment. You understand?’

She understood all too well. Could they prove she had lied? She was very much afraid that they could, and then what? She inclined her head in acquiescence. ‘I will wait.’

‘Good. Now you will eat.’ He untied her hands and beckoned to another of the band and issued orders. Olivia, who had been in the Peninsula long enough to pick up a little Spanish and Portuguese, though she found speaking the latter difficult, understood he was ordering food and wine and a blanket for her. That meant they intended to spend the night in the camp, high up in the rugged mountains somewhere on the border between Spain and Portugal.

By the time the food was brought, they had taken Philippe’s body down and carried it off, presumably to bury it, or perhaps to send it back to the occupiers of Ciudad Rodrigo as a lesson to any who strayed outside the perimeter of the town. Whichever it was, she forced herself to pretend indifference, though she was glad when she no longer had to see it.

The food was good and the blanket welcome and she spent the rest of the evening pretending she was pleased to be among friends. Only after they had all settled down on the hard ground to sleep did she decide to test whether they had posted sentries. Stealthily she crept away, but before she had gone far a man stepped out of the shadows and barred her way. ‘I must relieve myself,’ she whispered, clutching at her abdomen and grimacing. ‘I have a pain.’

He waved her on. She walked slowly at first, even going so far as to pause and pretend to be squatting down, but when he moved over to the other side of the camp she started to run and did not stop until she was sure they were not pursuing her. By the time the sun had risen above the distant mountains and felt warm on her back, she estimated she had put several miles between herself and her husband’s murderers.

It was strange that they had not come after her, but then perhaps they did not think she was worth the effort. Now she had to make up her mind whether to go into the village in the valley, which might contain the homes of those same partisans, or keep to the high ground and try to find her own way.

She had become so used to the distant rumble of guns that she ignored the sound, but when the wind blew suddenly chill and the sky became overcast she realised it was not guns but thunder which reverberated round the mountains. At the same moment she became aware of huge spots of rain splashing on to the road. She began to run.

The road dipped into the tree-covered lower slopes and she noticed an iron gate with a crest on top, guarding a long drive. There was bound to be a house at the end of it, and a house meant shelter. The gate creaked noisily as she pushed it open but no one came out of the nearby gatehouse to ask her business. She ran up the drive, pulling Philippe’s coat up over her head, and arrived, panting, on the steps of a considerable mansion.

She pounded on the door, but there was no response. She ran round to the back, found a door unlocked and let herself in. It had once been a luxurious home, she decided, as she moved through the kitchen quarters into the main hall with its grand staircase and beautifully tiled floor. Shouting in Spanish and then Portuguese, ‘Is anyone at home?’ produced no reply. She took off her wet coat and threw it over a chair, then made her way up the stairs and checked every room. The house was completely deserted. The few pieces of furniture which remained were of good quality, and those curtains which still hung at the windows were sumptuous, though covered in thick dust. She found a huge bedchamber with a carved and gilded four-poster and in the next room a hip-bath. She looked in the cupboards and discovered soap and towels and, thrown in the back of a wardrobe, a quilted dressing-gown. It was unclear whether the owners had had time to pack before leaving or whether the clothes and more easily carried furniture had been looted. She began a more systematic search and discovered a few more garments which, apart from the dust, were infinitely better than the skirt and blouse she had been wearing for the past week. They would have to be cleaned before she could wear them but that could be done later.

She had become so accustomed to watching French soldiers looting for their needs that she had no compunction about appropriating what she found for her own use. Here was luxury she had not seen since leaving her father’s home. It was heaven. She dashed down the stairs again to look for food. There was nothing to be found in any of the storerooms except a few large onions, but outside there were thick-stalked cabbages growing in the vegetable garden; she could make herself caldo verde, a rich green cabbage soup which seemed to be the staple diet of the Portuguese.

In no time she had a fire lit in the kitchen stove and set a cauldron of water on it. Hungry as she was, a bath came before food. She dragged the bath down the stairs and set it before the kitchen fire, then went out to gather the cabbage leaves. By the time she had sliced the onions, set them on to boil and shredded the cabbage finely, the water in the pan was hot enough to add to the cold water she had already poured into the tub. She smiled to herself as she threw off her clothes and climbed into it. Once upon a time she had had a maid to fill her bath, help her dress and see to her hair. Her clothes had been clean and pressed and were always ready to put on. As soon as the slightest sign of wear or a tear had appeared, they had been discarded. She looked across at the peasant skirt and blouse she had been wearing for weeks and smiled; they were fit for nothing but the bonfire.

She slid down among the soap bubbles and imagined herself back at home. Her bath would be in her bedroom, where a fire would be blazing and all her clean clothes laid out on the bed. Jane would be fussing round her, soaping her back and helping to wash her red-gold hair. It had been long in those days but that had become impractical while she was following the colours, not only because she had no one to dress it for her, but because of the difficulty of keeping it clean and free from vermin. She had cut it very short and been surprised when it sprang into curls all over her head. She soaped it now and ducked beneath the water to rinse it, then came up laughing.

She was free! Gloriously and happily free! She felt no guilt because she had always done her very best for both Tom and Philippe, sharing the hardships of the march, scavenging for food, cooking in almost impossible conditions, cleaning their uniforms and even, on occasion, carrying their packs, when they were utterly exhausted. She had taken both for better or worse and now it was all over. Over!

Never again! She had had her fill of marriage. From now on she would keep her independence. She still had to find her way back to England, still had to face up to her father, but that was nothing compared with what she had endured in the last two years. Two years. Two years wasted. No, she decided, not entirely wasted; she had learned a great deal about herself, not all of it good, but she had emerged, she hoped, a little wiser. She began to sing as she soaped herself and the bath filled with bubbles.

‘The noble Duke of York,

He had ten thousand men,

He marched them up to the top of the hill,

And he marched them down again.’

‘Madame is in good spirits,’ said a voice in English.

She froze. Slowly she reached out for a towel and held it to cover her breasts, then turned her head towards the door. The man who had come in from the rain and was standing on the doormat knocking the water from his shako was the rider she had seen earlier. He was carrying a rifle and a dead hare. Was this his home? Was she the intruder or was he? She decided to attack first.

‘Is it not the custom where you come from to knock before entering?’

‘I did. You were making so much noise you did not hear.’

‘Noise, sir?’ She dared not move for fear of disturbing the bubbles which enveloped her. ‘Some have said I have a passably good voice.’

He smiled and walked over to the stove to sniff appreciatively at the pot; it brought him round to her front. ‘Is your mistress at home?’

‘My mistress?’ she repeated, then, realising he thought she was a servant, laughed. ‘I call no one mistress.’

‘You are surely not the lady of the house?’

‘No. I have never met her.’

He laughed aloud. ‘Oh, I see. An opportunist like myself. Are you alone?’

She hesitated, but there was no point in denying it; he would soon discover the truth. ‘Yes.’

He indicated the pot with a jerk of his head. ‘That smells good.’

‘The least a gentleman would do is leave a lady to finish her toilette in privacy.’

‘But I am no gentleman.’ There was a hint of bitterness in his voice which made her look up into his face. There were tiny lines etched around his eyes which could have been laughter-lines but could equally have been caused by long hours squinting into the sun. His mouth was firm and his teeth were strong and white; a handsome man, she decided, but refreshingly unaware of it.

‘No, that much is evident,’ she said crisply, and when he made no move to go picked up the bar of soap and hurled it at him. Her aim was good and it struck him on the side of the head, bounced off his shoulder and slithered to the floor. ‘Get out!’ she yelled.

He laughed and retrieved it, weighing it in his hand as if considering whether to throw it back. ‘Out?’ he asked mildly, appraising what he could see of her — a mane of red-gold hair, which lay against freckled cheeks in wet tendrils, a long neck and sloping white shoulders which disappeared behind the towel she was holding against herself. The vision was spoiled to some extent by hardened brown hands which were obviously accustomed to work. ‘But it is pouring with rain. And besides, I am hungry. Now if you were to share the pot with me I could provide something to improve its flavour.’ He waved the hare at her.

‘Go away and leave me in peace. I do not want or need your company.’ There was nothing else at hand to throw except the towel and she was loath to let go of that, and he showed no sign of doing as she asked. With nothing in her hand to defend herself, she was obliged to change her belligerent attitude to one of reasonableness; and the idea of meat made the saliva run in her mouth. ‘Can’t you see I am in no position to do anything about the soup or the meat with you hovering over me? And this water is becoming cold and I want to dress.’

He grinned. ‘I could do with a bath too. How about sharing it with me?’

‘If you go and leave me to dress, I will cook the hare and heat up some more water for you.’

‘That sounds like a fair bargain to me.’ He paused and pointed to the door into the rest of the house. ‘Have you been through there?’

‘Yes. It is empty, nothing to steal, I am afraid.’

‘What a disappointment for you.’

She was about to say she was referring to him and that she was not a thief when she remembered the clothes she had found and intended to keep. Instead she said, ‘Go and wait in the hall if you want any dinner.’

He made an ostentatious leg and left the room. As soon as she was sure he had really gone, she scrambled out and dried herself quickly, then dressed in her own underclothes and topped them with the dressing-gown she had found. She went to the door and called to him. ‘If you want a bath, you had better empty this one and draw more water.’

She went to stir the pot and skin the hare and did not know he had come back into the room until he spoke. ‘Where is the owner of this?’

She turned towards him. He was standing just inside the door holding Philippe’s coat at arm’s length. ‘Dead,’ she said flatly, returning to her task.

‘Who was he?’

‘My husband.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes. Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’

‘A Frenchman?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him boldly. ‘Does that change your mind?’

‘About what?’

‘About sharing a meal.’

‘No, why should it?’ He began dragging the bath towards the door. She watched as he opened the door, tipped it up and emptied its contents into the yard where the soapy bubbles dispersed in the puddles already there. He brought it back and stood it on end against the wall. ‘Is there anyone in the house at all?’

‘No. Unless they are hiding in a cupboard. There is a cellar, but the door is locked, I couldn’t open it.’

‘Best be sure.’ He picked up his rifle and left her. She could hear him moving about the house, doing as she had done earlier and searching every cranny. She was stirring the pot and humming quietly to herself when she was startled by a shot. She ran into the hall, half expecting to see him lying dead at the feet of the rightful owner of the house, but there was no one about and all was quiet. A moment later he appeared clutching two bottles of wine. ‘Had to shoot the lock off,’ he said. ‘But there was no one there. They probably evacuated when they heard your people were advancing.’

‘My people?’

‘Johnny Bluecoats.’

‘They are not my people.’

‘One of them was. You said so.’

‘I am English, just as you are.’

‘Ah.’ He smiled wryly, taking the bottles into the kitchen and setting them on the table. ‘How can you be sure that I am?’

‘You are dressed in a British uniform and you speak English as well as I do.’

‘Neither of which is proof positive. No, if I were you, I would want to know a great deal more than that.’

‘Why? It is of little consequence; our paths are unlikely to cross again.’

‘Now that would be a pity,’ he said. ‘I thought my luck had changed at last.’

‘You are impertinent, sir.’

He stood squarely and gave her a cool look of appraisal from her bare feet — army boots were hardly a suitable accessory for a blue silk dressing-gown — up over her five feet seven — she had the figure of an angel, he decided — to an oval face in which the green eyes flashed at him with a confusing mixture of humour and anger. He laughed. ‘Pretending to be affronted by what was, after all, meant as a compliment, doesn’t fool me, Madame Santerre. You are no drawing-room miss and, I’ll wager, never have been. A camp follower, that’s what you are, and, it seems, not particular as to the camp. Tell me, is it true that Frenchman are more romantically inclined than Englishmen?’

She picked up the kitchen knife she had used to cut up the hare and raised it as if she meant to throw it but, deciding that it would be very unwise and probably dangerous, she turned back to her cooking. ‘Are you going to bath before we eat or afterwards? The water is hardly hot yet.’

‘It will do me. I’ll take it upstairs.’ He picked up the cauldron of hot water with little effort, though it was extremely heavy, grabbed the handle of the bath and disappeared with them into the hall, carrying the one and dragging the other.

She went to the door and shouted after him, ‘Not the room with the four-poster. I saw it first.’

Half an hour later he returned, looking much more presentable, though he had been obliged to put the buttonless uniform on again. ‘There are no men’s clothes at all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the owner was a lady who lived alone. It would account for her leaving in the face of an army, don’t you think?’

‘Perhaps.’ She filled two bowls to the brim with the hot stew and set them on the table, together with cutlery and glasses which she had found in the back of a kitchen cupboard. They were obviously not the family silver; that had gone, either with its owner or, after her departure, to marauding soldiers. ‘Would you like me to sew your buttons back on?’

‘No.’ He spoked sharply. ‘I like things as they are.’

‘Do you? How whimsical.’ She sat down opposite him and picked up her spoon. ‘I should have thought you would be glad to be able to close your coat again. The wind and rain in the mountains are cold, even in summer.’

‘I do not feel the cold.’

‘No? Not outside perhaps, but inside?’ She did not know why she said that, except that he looked like a man who kept his inner self very much to himself.

‘What do you mean?’

She answered his question with another. ‘Why are you alone, so far from the British lines?’

‘Why should the British lines be of interest to me? I told you, you should not make assumptions from appearances.’

‘Are you saying you are not an English soldier?’

‘I am not.’

‘But you were?’

‘That is neither here nor there.’

She guessed that he had been cashiered and it made her curious. In times of war when every available soldier was needed they would not discharge a man unless there was a very compelling reason. What crime had he committed? Ought she to be afraid of him? She supposed if she persisted in asking questions he might become dangerous, but at the moment he seemed more concerned with tucking into his dinner; he was obviously not going to be drawn on the subject. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It is no concern of mine. I only asked because I want to go back to the British lines myself and I thought you might take me with you.’

‘No!’ It was almost a shout. ‘My business is not in that direction at all. Now, if you don’t mind, we will change the subject.’ He lowered his voice and smiled. ‘Now, tell me how you came to be out on the mountain alone. It was you I saw earlier on the road, was it not?’

‘Yes, but I did not think you had noticed me, you seemed so preoccupied.’

‘I have been trained to notice things, but I must admit the filthy peasant I saw on the road bears very little resemblance to the beautiful young lady I found naked in a bath. If it had not been for the uniform coat, I might not have been so quick to realise they were one and the same.’

‘Careless of me,’ she said. ‘I suppose if I want to get back to the British lines I had better dispose of it.’

‘Why were you wearing it?’

‘It is warmer than nothing and nights on the mountains can be cold.’ She paused to sip her wine; it was a full-bodied red and made her feel sensuous and relaxed. She ought to beware of it. ‘Why are you still wearing yours?’

He gave a cracked laugh. ‘As you say, it is warmer than nothing.’

‘We could exchange them. I’ll have yours and you have mine.’

His head snapped up and he looked at her angrily. ‘Now why should you imagine that I would lower myself to wear a French uniform? I…’ He stopped suddenly as an idea came to him. ‘Tell me about yourself. Where did you meet your husband?’

‘Philippe, you mean? At Oporto, or more accurately a little to the north; I am not sure exactly where.’

‘Is Oporto your home?’

‘Of course not. I told you, I am English.’

‘There is no “of course” about it. There is quite a colony of English in Oporto, wine merchants most of them. Why do you think the government at home was so anxious to free it? Port is one of their favourite drinks.’

‘How cynical you are.’

‘Perhaps I have reason to be.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about Philippe.’

‘Why should I?’

‘I am interested and it will while away the evening.’ He leaned forward. ‘Unless you can think of something more exciting to do?’

The implication was clear and it infuriated her. ‘You do not have to spend the evening with me at all. You will find what you want in the village, I have no doubt.’

‘What I want? How can you know what I want? You do not know me.’

‘No. You have not even troubled to introduce yourself. Perhaps you are ashamed to do so.’

‘You want my name? Of what importance is that? It might just as well be Philippe Santerre.’

‘Philippe was an honourable man.’

‘You think I am not?’ He picked up his glass and drained it quickly, then refilled it. ‘You may well be right, Madame Santerre, for who decides such things — a man’s friends or his enemies…?’

‘You are talking in riddles.’

‘My apologies, ma’am.’ He inclined his head and then lapsed into silence.

She watched him for a moment or two then stood up to clear the table. ‘What are you going to do now? Get drunk?’

He laughed. ‘It would take more than a couple of bottles of red wine to do that. Besides, I need a clear head.’ He caught her hand as she passed him. ‘Sit down and tell me about yourself.’

‘It is a very long story.’

‘But a fascinating one, I am sure. You speak like a lady, look like a tramp and behave like a hoyden, so how can I be other than intrigued?’

She laughed and sat down again. ‘My aunt always said Papa had brought me up like a boy.’

‘Impossible!’ he said, laughing. ‘You do not look in the least like a boy. In fact…’ he smiled ‘…I could envy Philippe his good fortune.’

‘I shouldn’t do that,’ she said quietly. ‘He was hanged by the guerrilleros.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday. We were out shooting hares and they captured us.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘I told them I was the wife of an English soldier and Philippe had taken me against my will…’

‘Was that true?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Tell me exactly.’

‘I was married to an English soldier, but he was killed in the chase after the battle for Oporto.’ She did not know why she answered, but it was a relief to have someone to talk to in English, and if he could be made to appreciate her plight he might be prepared to help her.

‘Another husband! How many have you had?’

‘Two.’

‘And still only…how old?’

‘It is no business of yours.’

‘Twenty-two, twenty-three?’ he queried. ‘And already widowed twice?’

‘You are a cynic, aren’t you? Haven’t you ever been in love?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his face twisting in a wry smile. ‘And little good it did me. But go on with your story, we can come to mine later. Presumably you were at the tail of the British advance with the baggage?’

‘I was, until a courier who had come back with dispatches told me Tom had been wounded. Then I left it and went forward to look for him.’

‘As any good wife would do.’

‘As any good wife would do,’ she repeated.

‘You crossed the river?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘If you are English, you know the whole army crossed in small boats.’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘Or are you testing me?’

He laughed, poured more wine and settled back in his chair. ‘Tell me, did you find him?’

‘Yes, but he died very quickly. I tried to get back but I lost my way and ran into a company of French infantrymen.’

‘And in the blink of an eye you had changed sides and become a French soldier’s wife…’

‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ she protested. ‘You don’t understand. And if that is all you have to say, then I shall leave you and go to bed.’

‘Bed. Now, there’s a thought!’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘Have you a mind to change sides again? I might be able to accommodate you.’

She picked up her glass and threw it at him. It caught his chin and shattered, scattering shards all over his coat, the table and the floor. He calmly stood up and brushed himself down, ignoring the tiny trickle of blood on his chin. ‘I shall take that as a negative answer, which means you are still French, still the enemy…’

‘And who are you to talk?’ she demanded. ‘You are not so lily-white yourself, are you? Unless I miss my guess, you are in disgrace, so what right have you to censure me? I am going to bed. And I mean to barricade the door. And I shall be obliged if you have taken yourself off before I come down in the morning.’

He reached out to catch her wrist. She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter he gripped her. She circled round, pulling him round with her, so that she could reach the rifle he had left leaning against the wall. With all the strength she could muster, she twisted herself free and grabbed the weapon. ‘Now!’ she said, pointing it at him. ‘Do not think I don’t know how to use this because I promise you I do.’

He laughed and put up both hands in surrender. ‘Lord preserve me from a gun in the hands of a woman! You may rest easy, madame, I was only going to suggest a truce. We could help each other.’

‘How?’ she asked warily, still aiming the gun.

‘You want to go back to the British lines, do you not?’

‘Yes. Will you take me?’

‘Perhaps. If you do something for me first.’

‘It depends.’

‘You take me to Ciudad Rodrigo and get me through the French lines and later I will take you home — all the way to England, if you like.’

She lowered the gun to look at him, dumbfounded. ‘You are mad,’ she said at last. ‘They’ll kill you.’

‘Not if you vouch for me.’

‘Vouch for you!’ Her voice was almost a squeak. ‘I can hardly vouch for myself. They do not know me. Philippe and I had only just arrived when the town was taken. We had spent the winter in France while Philippe’s wounds healed and were joining a new regiment…’

‘You mean that no one in the town knew Philippe either?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I shall be Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’

‘For heaven’s sake, why? Are you tired of living?’

He laughed, but the sound was not a cheerful one. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What happened to make you so bitter?’

‘That is my business. Now, will you take me back to Ciudad Rodrigo or not?’

‘Can you speak French like a native?’

‘No, but I can understand it well enough, and, remember, I have just been hanged and my throat is sore. Why did they hang him, by the way? Why not just shoot him, so much quicker and cleaner?’

She shrugged. ‘A rope is cheaper than a bullet and, besides, a shot echoes a long way in these mountains; I suspect they did not want their hide-out found.’

‘One man’s bad fortune is another’s luck. I think my voice has been permanently affected by the ordeal.’

‘You will never get away with it.’

‘I will if you stay with me to be my guide and do the talking.’

‘You must be crazy if you think I would agree to that.’ She looked hard at him, trying to make up her mind if he was making some macabre joke at her expense, but his expression was perfectly serious and the light in his hazel eyes was not one of levity. He looked deadly serious, almost as if he was pleading with her. ‘Why do you want to do this? Do you want to change sides? If so, there are easier ways of doing it; you could simply say you had deserted — some do, you know.’

‘I could do that, of course, but this way seems the more interesting prospect, certainly more exciting than being a prisoner of war.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘I’ll do it anyway.’

‘Then you will die in the attempt.’

He shrugged. ‘Then so be it.’

He sat down at the table again with an empty glass in front of him and stared out of the window into the darkness beyond it, as if he could see something, or someone, who haunted his thoughts and dictated his actions. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said, without turning towards her. ‘Sleep on it. I shall not disturb you.’

She left him reaching for the bottle to refill his glass and made her way up to the huge four-poster. It was all part of a macabre dream; he did not exist, the guerrilleros did not exist, Philippe had not been hanged. She was in bed at home and soon Jane would wake her with her breakfast on a tray. Home! How badly did she want to go home? How much was she prepared to pay for it?