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The Price Of Honour
Mary Nichols
Olivia Pledger, through her own willfulness, found herself stranded in Portugal in the middle of the Peninsular War! A resourceful lady, she was determined to work her way back to the British lines and so get herself home to England.But in foraging a deserted mansion, she was discovered by Robert Lynmount, who had been cashiered in disgrace from Wellington's army. Although intent on scouting unofficially for Wellington until he could clear his name, now Robert felt responsible for Olivia's safety. In such circumstances, falling in love was crazy, and personal feeling could not be allowed to count….




The Price of Honour
Mary Nichols


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover (#ud7c627cd-b696-5e0b-8006-7e89074483e4)
Title Page (#u888908e6-08cc-5f28-9d5a-bc1534c1daba)
PROLOGUE (#uf95ed153-ceed-5844-a02d-95005dbca127)
CHAPTER ONE (#u2d7201b9-49a5-5b91-a269-e15d743d356a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua1bd9852-9cd7-5426-a2d7-3cb90703126f)
CHAPTER THREE (#uda6ccfe5-1951-53c7-ab5a-f4e357748cc0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_49c72f5b-aad9-5162-b76b-9906496cb1ff)
‘YOU have done what?’
‘We have cashiered him, my lord, for unofficerlike and ungentlemanlike behaviour — after a proper court-martial, of course. In Lisbon.’
The heat in the room was intense and made no cooler by the temper of the commander-in-chief of the British forces, whose names included Hooknose, Nosey, the Peer and the Leopard, a name given to him by Napoleon, to which he had added the epithet ‘hideous’. It did not bother the newly created Viscount Wellington in the slightest; he had adopted it with some amusement and was often heard to refer to his men as ‘my leopards’.
For six months hardly a shot had been fired by either side and the inaction was causing boredom among the troops, not to mention impatience at Westminster. But now the enemy was on the move. Across the Pyrenees they had come, the hordes of Napoleon, eighty thousand strong, marching down through Salamanca towards the Portuguese frontier, mile upon mile of blue and white uniforms, led by Marshal André Masséna and accompanied by heavy cavalry and light horsemen, their coloured plumes moving up and down with the rhythm of their mounts; cuirassiers, whose breastplates glinted in the glaring heat of a Spanish summer; heavy guns on limbers pulled by teams of huge horses, baggage wagons by the thousand, kicking up the dust, advertising their presence to the bands of guerrilleros who watched from their mountain hideouts, ready to pick off stragglers and raid the supply wagons.
They were still a long way from Celerico Da Beira where the British commander-in-chief had his headquarters, and he showed no sign of going out to meet them. While they waited, the officers filled their time with horse racing and shooting matches and the rank and file went fishing and whoring. There were times when the colonel wished the French would hurry their advance and mount an attack, just to give the men something gainful to do, but even if they did it would not happen here. Between them and the enemy front line stood General Craufurd and his Light Division. The colonel envied the dashing general who had found something better to do than keep discipline and worry about supplies.
‘Dammit, he is one of my best scouts.’ Wellington’s voice broke in on his thoughts.
‘Yes, my lord, but you did issue an order that there was to be no looting, and he was caught red-handed. No exceptions, you said, and the officers must set a good example.’ The colonel stood his ground. He had only carried out orders, and how was he to know his lordship would ask for the man specifically? As far as he had been aware, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the fellow.
‘To be sure I did.’ The angry tone of the commander’s voice softened as he realised the justice of what the colonel was saying. ‘Looting, you say?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Of all the ignoble things to be cashiered for,’ his lordship mused. ‘If he had to fall foul of regulations, why could it not be for duelling? At least that has something gentlemanly about it. I could forgive him for that.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I do not know, my lord. He left.’
‘Has he returned to England, do you think?’
‘I doubt it, my lord; he would not want to face his father, the viscount, and the public disgrace.’
‘Then find him. Find him and bring him to me.’
There was no arguing with Wellington in his present mood; the colonel inclined his head and left the villa which was his regiment’s temporary headquarters. The heat, as he stooped below the lintel and stepped outside, rose to meet him from the baked earth and the strong midday sun almost blinded him. Clapping his cocked hat on his head, he marched across what had once been a field but which now resembled a parade ground as a group of English drill sergeants endeavoured to make soldiers of the untidy riff-raff which made up the Portuguese army. There was a good deal of ribald comment from the red-coated British troops but the untested Portuguese cacadores took it all in good part. They were, after all, going to fight in defence of their homeland and were perhaps the only ones to be glad of the long period of inactivity, in which to train.
Where was Robert Lynmount? the colonel asked himself. Where was the one-time captain of Hussars, hero of the battle of Talavera and now disgraced? And how, in the middle of a war, when he had better things to do, was he going to find him and bring him back? And, what was more, how was he going to reverse the verdict of a properly convened court-martial when there was no doubt about the fellow’s guilt? He swore loudly and sent a trooper in search of Captain Rufus Whitely.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a4a7f951-4065-5f04-be39-e40c26dd550b)
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?

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_8982b733-ad42-51c8-bd1a-80da296c6718)
OLIVIA was awoken before dawn by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and she sprang up to look out of the window. He was riding away in the blustering wind which had followed the rain, walking his horse in the same slow, deliberate way she had seen him riding the day before. Had he had second thoughts about his preposterous idea or had he decided to go alone after all? If that were so, he would never succeed in passing the guard at the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo, let alone impersonating Philippe. It was true he was about the same height and build, and in a poor light his hair might look as dark as Philippe’s, but in the glare of day, in the face of questioning… She shuddered at the risk he would be taking. Even with her it would be bad, but at least she could give him Philippe’s uniform coat and take him to their lodgings where she could hand over her dead husband’s papers and belongings. As long as he did not speak and met no one who had known Philippe, he stood a chance, if only a slim one.
She pulled herself up short. Why should she concern herself with a disgraced English officer? Why should she care what happened to him? And why, in heaven’s name, should she delay her own return to the British lines to help him? She did not even know why he wanted to do it. She laughed suddenly. She did not even know his name. And there were other puzzling things about him — his demeanour, his speech and the way he sat his horse indicated that he had been an officer, but officers did not usually carry rifles. And the Baker rifle he had with him was only issued to the élite Rifle Brigade and their uniform coat was green, not red. Tom had often said that if he had known about the Rifles before he signed on he would have enlisted in the Ninety-fifth. Poor Tom.
She pulled on the robe and went downstairs determined to put the man from her mind; there were more important things to think of. First, she would clean the clothes she had stolen; she would have liked to say ‘borrowed’, but as she could not see how she could return them, nor pay for them, ‘stolen’ was the only appropriate word. Then she would leave the kitchen and the bedroom tidy; that at least she owed the owner of the house for her unwitting hospitality. After that, she would set off again. The coast of Portugal was to the west, so if she walked with the rising sun at her back she ought, sooner or later, to come across the British lines, or the sea. Obstacles in the form of rivers or mountains, or hostile people, she would deal with as she met them. It was simple.
True, she would rather have had an escort, someone to keep her company and help her overcome the difficulties whatever they might be, but she had learned in the past two years to be resilient and self-sufficient, and when there was nothing else for it, what was the good of wishing otherwise? The guerrilleros would not help her and perhaps that was just as well; friend or foe, they were terrifying.
And as for the Englishman, he was too wrapped up in his own problems to concern himself with hers. But she could not stop herself thinking about him, wondering about him. Why was he in the mountains alone? Why had he been cashiered, if, indeed, he had? She shrugged her thoughts from her as she put on a cotton dress she had found in a cupboard; it had a brown background and was decorated with poppy heads in large red splashes of colour, a servant’s dress, she decided. The old boots and the straw hat completed her ensemble. Her preparations complete, she picked up the bundle she had gathered together and left by the door she had entered, carefully shutting it behind her. It was none of her business what he was up to.
She stopped when she saw him riding back up the drive, leading a mule. He was smiling.
‘If you think that bringing that will make me change my mind,’ she said, without bothering to give him good morning, ‘you are mistaken. I will have nothing to do with your hare-brained schemes. You are mad.’
‘But it is the mad ideas which have the best chance of success, don’t you agree?’ he queried amiably. ‘And I thrive on a challenge.’
‘You will not thrive on this one.’
‘With you at my side, I could succeed.’
‘Succeed in doing what?’ she demanded.
He laughed. ‘Do you know, I am not at all sure? I will put my mind to it as we ride.’
‘I will not ride with you.’
‘No? Would you rather the guerrilleros finished off what they started?’
She looked up at him defiantly but the tone of his voice suggested that she had not left the partisans as far behind as she thought. ‘They are not interested in me.’
‘On the contrary, Madame Santerre, they are very interested in you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I saw them riding down the mountainside, about twenty of them, armed to the teeth.’
‘They are coming here?’
He shrugged.
‘I do not believe you.’ But even as she spoke she realised he was telling the truth. ‘Why would they send twenty armed men after one woman?’ She paused. ‘Unless they are after you too.’
‘Whichever it is, madame, you and I are destined to spend some time together, so why not accept the inevitable? I will make a bargain with you. When we reach the main road from Ciudad Rodrigo into Portugal, you can go your way and I will go mine.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘If that is what you want. Come now, we are wasting time. Mount up and let us be on our way; the sooner we start, the sooner you will be rid of me.’
She would have liked to defy him, to refuse to do anything he asked, but the thought of riding instead of walking, and having some protection against the bloodthirsty Spanish partisans, was a powerful persuader. Olivia tied her bundle behind the saddle of the mule and, using the doorstep as a mounting block, hitched up her skirt and threw her leg over the animal’s back, aware as she did so that he was smiling. ‘Do you think I have not ridden astride before?’ she demanded.
‘No, it is evident that you are quite accustomed to it.’ He turned his horse and led the way, not back up the drive to the gates, but along a rough path that led from the side of the house, round an empty stable block and through an olive grove which went steeply downhill towards the distant river. ‘Better than taking the road,’ he said over his shoulder.
She did not answer but concentrated on watching where the mule was going, thankful for its sure-footedness as it picked its way over loose stones and the roots of ancient olives which clung to any tiny crevice where there was soil. When the path broadened out, he reined in for her to come abreast of him.
‘Tell me about Ciudad Rodrigo,’ he commanded. ‘All you know.’
‘I know very little. We had only been there one day, just long enough to find lodgings.’
‘Describe the place, the streets, the buildings, the defences, anything you can think of. How are the inhabitants behaving towards the occupying forces? Do the French have trouble with them? Is there any resistance?’
‘I would not think so. The town surrendered, after all. The resistance is in the hills.’
‘To be sure.’
‘And if I knew anything, would I be so foolish as to tell you, sir? I do not know you or why you are here, do I? You may be a spy. In fact, I think that is just what you are.’
‘Touché, madame.’ He smiled as if at some secret joke. ‘Did you learn anything of the intentions of the guerrilleros while you were with them?’
‘I do not trust them either; they are a bloodthirsty lot.’
‘So they are, but not without reason. If someone had invaded England and pillaged your home town, raped the women and killed the men for nothing except keeping back food to feed their children, you would be bloodthirsty.’ He turned to look at her. He seemed far less formidable than he had in the poor light of the evening before and yet, behind the hazel eyes, there was an alertness which was not immediately evident from his languid pose. ‘The Spanish are hopeless when it comes to fighting in the disciplined way of the British army, but in small bands, in the hills where they can remain hidden until the time comes to strike, there are none better. The Peer knows that and he encourages them.’
‘I think they are barbaric. They did not have to kill Philippe; he could not have harmed them.’
‘He could have given away their position.’
‘We were blindfolded when we were taken to their camp.’
‘And yet you found your way out.’
‘That was simple good luck.’
‘They would not view it so. You could lead a French patrol back there.’
She looked startled. ‘Why should I do that? I told them I was English.’
‘And did they believe you? Did they even understand you?’
‘Their leader did. He looked as uncouth as the rest of his band, but he spoke excellent French and very good English. He was — is — an educated man.’
‘Don Miguel Santandos,’ he murmured, almost to himself.
‘You know him?’
‘I know of him. He is one of the fiercest and bravest fighters in all Spain, but he is also ruthless. He will let nothing stand in his way; he would certainly not think twice about killing a woman. If he thinks you are likely to betray him, he will come after you; nothing is more certain.’
She laughed. ‘If you are saying that to persuade me to go with you, you are wasting your time. I do not want to return to Ciudad Rodrigo, I intend to go home to England, and the sooner the better.’
‘You may do as you please,’ he said laconically. ‘But before you can do that we have to cross the river and find the road.’
She rode silently for a moment or two, but curiosity drove her to speak again. ‘What will you do in Ciudad Rodrigo, always supposing you manage to enter the town at all? You will have to remain silent, you know, so how will you make yourself understood?’
‘A man who has been hanged and survived is still able to write, and my French is good enough for that.’
‘You will never convince anyone you have been hanged. There would be a very nasty mark on your neck if you had.’
‘I shall have to wear a bandage.’
‘They are not fools, you know.’
‘Neither am I.’
She could not believe he really meant to do it. It was a silly game he was playing with her, though what his reasons were she could not even guess. Unless he was testing her loyalty? Why? She had told him the truth, if not the whole truth, so what more could he possibly want? ‘You have not even told me your name,’ she said. ‘What shall I call you?’
‘Anything that takes your fancy, madame.’
‘Have you something to hide?’
He laughed harshly. ‘There is little that can be hidden behind a coat with no buttons. I am as you see me.’
‘Cashiered,’ she said. ‘Dishonourably discharged.’
‘My honour is my own affair,’ he said stiffly.
‘So it is; I have no interest in it. After all, we part at the crossroads and I do not expect to see you again. You will undoubtedly be shot by the French for spying — or by the English.’
‘Better that than…’ He stopped suddenly and sat forward in his saddle, holding his hand up to stop her. ‘Be silent!’
She reined in and craned her neck to look past him. The village lay below them, nestling on the far side of a swiftly moving river which had cut a deep gorge through the mountain rock. There was a lone villa standing at the end of an ancient bridge. She watched, fascinated, as a group of men scrambled up from the rocks among the pillars of the bridge and ran into the villa. A moment later a huge explosion filled the air, flinging debris high into the sky. When the dust had settled, there was no longer a bridge.
‘If we had been two minutes earlier, we would have been on it.’ He chuckled. ‘Thank heaven for an argumentative woman.’
‘And if we had used the road we might have been even earlier and on the other side by now,’ she retorted. ‘Now, what do we do? Could we find a boat?’
He laughed. ‘Do you think that after taking the trouble to blow up the bridge the guerrilleros are going to be so careless as to leave boats about? Besides, the banks are too steep for anyone but a mountain goat to get down to the water.’
‘Why did they do it? It is hardly an important bridge. It looks to me as though it is only used by the villagers to reach their olive groves.’
‘They want to stop someone from using it; that much is plain. Perhaps they are expecting company.’ He turned his horse to face her. ‘Or perhaps they want to keep a certain person on this side of it.’
‘You?’ she queried. Then, startled, ‘Me?’
‘Who’s to say what is in the mind of Don Santandos? But I think we would be wise to move on.’
‘Where?’
‘North, towards the head of the river, there might be another bridge or, if not, a place to cross.’
‘Why not south?’
‘You may go south if you wish,’ he said laconically. ‘But I go north and then east.’
‘You would not leave me here alone?’
‘I thought that was what you most desired.’
‘That was before…’
‘Before?’ He laughed. ‘I am the lesser of two evils, is that it?’
‘I am not even sure of that,’ she retorted. ‘Danger comes in many guises. Just because you look a little more civilised than that Spaniard does not mean you are less dangerous. In fact, I think you are possibly the more deadly of the two. Don Santandos said he would keep me safe until he had checked my story, while you…’
‘And would he have been able to check your story? Are you sure you told him the whole truth?’
She did not answer and he turned his horse towards the mountain peaks and set off back along the path through the olive groves, leaving her fuming in her saddle. She looked behind her at the ruins of the bridge. The partisans were streaming out of the villa and up the hill towards them. She dug her heels into the mule’s flanks and set off after the Englishman.
‘I shall call you Mr Leopard,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Until such time as we meet someone who can effect a proper introduction.’
‘Why Leopard?’
‘Isn’t that what Napoleon calls Viscount Wellington — a hideous leopard?’
‘The comparison flatters me, ma’am. Did you know the leopard cannot sheath its claws?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I have none to sheath.’
‘That I beg leave to doubt.’ She paused. ‘Are we going back to the villa?’
‘No. We will turn off in the olive grove and find the path that follows the course of the river.’
‘If there is one.’
They rode on in silence until he found the track he wanted and turned his horse northwards. Olivia followed because there was nothing else she could do. The ground became rougher and the hill steeper. She glanced behind her every now and again, but there was no sign of the guerrilleros and she began to think he had been wrong or trying to frighten her. ‘Do you really think the bridge was blown to trap me?’ she asked at last. ‘Surely they would not inconvenience a whole village just to punish one woman?’
‘It depends what they think you know.’
‘I know nothing. If we were to wait and face them, could we not convince them of it?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I begin to think it is not me but you they want. You are their enemy.’
‘You may think what you please.’
‘Are you going to ride all day without stopping?’
‘If I have to.’
‘I have some food in my pack.’
‘Good.’
‘You are not very talkative, are you?’
‘No need to be; you do enough talking for both of us.’
‘You wish me to be silent?’
‘It might help.’
‘Help you to think?’
‘And help me to hear. Good heavens, woman, you would be useless on patrol.’
‘I am not a soldier.’
‘No, thank heaven. Listen!’ He reined in and stood in the stirrups. ‘The river is over there.’ He started off again towards the sound of running water.
When they arrived on the top of the rise they had been climbing they could see the river, hundreds of feet below them, cut into a gorge whose cliffs were unscaleable. Olivia’s heart sank. ‘I said we should go south,’ she said. ‘Are you going to turn back?’
‘Certainly not! Come on.’
She looked up at the distant mountain; the source of the river was almost certainly high up in those peaks. ‘We can’t go up there.’
‘We may not need to.’
She was reluctant to start moving again, but he did not wait for her and she clicked her tongue at the mule and set off in his wake.
The sun climbed to its zenith, but they were so high in the wind-swept mountains that they could not feel its warmth. Olivia stopped to fetch Philippe’s jacket out of her pack and put it on. She was not sure, but she thought he had slowed his pace a little to wait for her. It pleased her out of all proportion and she decided to test it by lingering longer than she needed, just to see if he would turn back. But he did not even turn his head; he simply walked his horse slowly until she caught up with him again.
‘Do not do that again,’ he said. ‘Not without telling me. I could have gone on and left you behind. Anything could have happened to you.’
‘I was cold. And I am hungry and thirsty. When are we going to stop?’
‘When we reach that outcrop.’ He lifted his hand to point at a group of boulders poised on the skyline as if some giant hand had taken great pains to set them there, finely balanced and yet immovable. ‘It will afford some shelter from the wind and a fine view as well. You shall have your picnic there.’
His tone annoyed her; it was as if he thought she was a frivolous, empty-headed female who behaved as if she were at home in England. Would that she were! ‘Even I know that an army marches on its stomach,’ she retorted. ‘We will go the better for having rested a few minutes. And besides, what is the hurry? I cannot see us being on the other side of the river before nightfall however hard we press on.’
‘You may be right.’
‘I begin to wonder where you are leading me; we are moving away from the river now.’
‘If you had not been so busy refining upon this and that, you would have noticed the river was taking a wide curve; we are simply cutting across the bend. When we reach the top of the hill, we shall see it again.’
You seem to know your way very well. Have you, perhaps, been here before?’
‘I am a soldier, trained to be observant.’
‘So you said before.’
‘Did you learn nothing from either of your husbands?’
‘I learned a great deal, but as one was no more than a private and the other a mere lieutenant tactics did not come into it. Poor Tom was drilled to obey without question, and Philippe…’
‘Philippe was what?’
‘A dreamer, a romantic. He came from a noble family and he never took war seriously. Even when he was wounded he laughed and said it was just bad luck.’
‘Were you never exhausted and hungry?’
‘Philippe always had money for food and a good bed, but many of the ordinary troops suffer badly; you must know the French commissary always relies on what the country can offer…’
‘Offer! That is hardly accurate. If I know the Spaniards, they offer nothing.’
She smiled. ‘You are right, which is why supplying the army is such a problem to the French command.’
‘It is the same in any army, but forethought and planning and money to pay make the difference. Did Philippe not feel guilty, using his wealth to fare better than his men?’
‘I do not think so. Sometimes he bought food for his troop as well.’
‘Very magnanimous of him. He sounds exceedingly pompous to me.’
‘He was nothing of the sort. How you think you can impersonate him when you have no idea what he was like I do not know.’
‘But you said no one else in Ciudad Rodrigo knew him either, so it hardly matters.’
‘You never know, someone might come along, an old friend, a fellow officer, someone who fought with him at Talavera…’
‘That is a chance I will have to take.’
‘I still say you are mad. Even madder to attempt it without me.’
‘You will come, then?’
‘No,’ she said sharply.
His complacent smile annoyed her, but she was angrier with herself for even suggesting she ought to go with him. That was not her intention at all. She fell silent, concentrating on the group of rocks which were their goal and which seemed as far away as ever.
It was the middle of the afternoon when they reached them. He dismounted and left his horse to graze on the sparse vegetation and turned to help her down. She felt herself being lifted clean out of the saddle as if she had no more weight than a feather. And yet she was over average height and well built, if over-thin. As he set her down, keeping his hands about her waist for a breathless moment longer than he needed to, she realised how tall he was; that, unlike many men, he towered over her. Slowly she looked up into his face, wondering whether to speak or remain silent, to scold him for manhandling her or to thank him for his courtesy, but what she saw there silenced her. Behind the hazel eyes was a look of anguish, of a pain too deep for speech. Someone, or something, had hurt him very badly.
‘Now, where is this feast?’ he said lightly, turning towards the pack on the back of the mule’s saddle.
She took out cold hare and a bottle of wine and from the depths of his saddle-bag he found bread.
‘You did not have that last night,’ she said, pointing at it.
‘I did not have a mule either.’
‘Where did you get them?’
He laughed and the hurt look left his eyes and was replaced by a twinkle of humour. ‘Better not ask, madame.’
‘My name is Olivia,’ she said. ‘And I do not like the French form of address.’
‘Not even when it is correct? But as I have taken on the mantle of your dead husband, then it would be better to use your given name, I agree.’
‘You surely do not intend to go through with that wild scheme of yours?’
‘More than ever.’
‘What have you to gain?’
‘A new set of claws.’
‘Is that all?’
‘All? To me it is everything.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Not now. It is neither the time nor the place; we have to finish our meal and go on if we intend to find a river crossing by dark.’
She was wise enough to desist from prying and they ate in silence. When food and wine were both consumed, they set off again. ‘That was dinner,’ she said with a laugh which sounded hollow. ‘What shall we have for supper?’
He smiled. ‘“Sufficient unto the day…”’
‘Oh, very droll. If we had turned south, we would have found some habitation, somewhere where we could buy food and drink and a bed for the night. Up here in the mountains…’
‘The mountains are teeming with life — hares, goats, boars, maybe a mountain lion or two.’
She laughed. ‘Leopards with claws.’
‘I sincerely hope not.’ His answer was clipped and stopped her jesting. She did not know how to take him; he was cheerful, almost boyish one minute and morose and short-tempered the next, and neither her teasing nor her anger seemed to change that. She should remain silent, allow him to brood on his own if he wanted to, but it was not in her nature to let things lie. He needed taking out of himself and then he might be prepared to confide in her. If he did that, and he had some very compelling reason for wanting to go to Ciudad Rodrigo, she might consider helping him. She brought herself up short. Was she weakening? No, she told herself, she would leave him at the first opportunity. Would he come after her? Riding a mule, she had no chance of outpacing him.
‘What’s his name?’ she asked, looking at the beautiful black stallion.
‘Thor.’
‘The god of thunder,’ she said. ‘Is he thunderous?’
‘He is more than you can handle.’
‘Indeed?’
The mischievous note in her voice made him turn to look at her; her green eyes were laughing at him in a way which made his pulses quicken. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated firmly.
It was dusk when the track turned away from the gorse-clad slopes and entered a pine wood. Once in the shelter of the trees, he stopped and dismounted. ‘Madame desires a good hotel,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘This is the very best the region has to offer. The beds are soft and cleaner than most.’ He pointed to heaps of brown pine needles. ‘Supper will arrive in due course. Make yourself comfortable.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find our supper.’
‘Another hare.’
‘I had my thoughts on something a little tastier. I caught a glimpse of a herd of goats.’
‘But they belong to the people. And in any case, what would we do with a whole goat?’
‘Not a goat, a kid.’
‘No!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘That would be cruel and unnecessary.’
‘You may go hungry, if you prefer that,’ he said. ‘But I intend to eat.’ He picked up his rifle, pouch and ammunition and set off through the trees, leaving her to make herself comfortable on the pine needles. She had eaten kid many times before, but then she had not seen it newly slaughtered, nor had a hand in the skinning of it; that had been done by someone in Philippe’s troop. Half the time she had not known what she was eating anyway; hunger had made her less than fastidious.
She smiled to herself; she was deliberately trying the patience of the Englishman — the leopard without claws — just to see how far she could go before he lost his composure. It was a dangerous game to play. Supposing he left her and supposing the guerrilleros were really after her and not him? Supposing she lost her way? Supposing she was attacked by wolves or wild boars? She ought to be thankful for his protection. She sat down and leant her back against one of the trees. She ought to start a fire or, at least, gather the firewood; he would return soon and she had done nothing but dream.
He was coming back now; she could hear him walking through the pine needles. She smiled; he had grumbled at her for making a noise, but he sounded like an army on the march. She would tell him so. She turned and opened her mouth to speak as the undergrowth parted, but it was not her companion who faced her but a huge boar with tusks a foot long. She stood frozen for a second which seemed like an hour as they faced each other and then, galvanised into action, she scrambled up the tree she had been leaning against, leaving the animal in possession of their belongings.
It rooted around for a time and flung her bundle about with its snout but there was nothing edible in it. ‘Go away, you stupid brute,’ she hissed down at it from her perch. ‘There’s nothing there. Oh, go away, do, I feel such a fool.’
The horse and mule, both tethered near by, set up a neighing and braying as the frustrated boar began snuffling round the campsite. If only she had a gun! She began pelting the animal with pine cones but it did not even feel them. Where was Mr Leopard? Why didn’t he come back? No, she did not want him to find her in this ignominious position, but neither did she want to stay up the tree all night. She took off her boot and flung it at the boar’s head. It landed on its snout. It looked up at her, as if surprised at her temerity. ‘Get out!’ she said, determined not to raise her voice. ‘Don’t you know you are not welcome?’
She was startled by a chuckle close at hand and turned her head to see the Englishman standing not ten feet away, carrying a dead hare. ‘Oh, I might have known you would think it funny,’ she said. ‘Now would you kindly get rid of that animal and help me down?’
She expected him to shoot it, but instead he advanced on the boar and raised the butt of his rifle as if he intended to club it to death. ‘You fool!’ she said. ‘It’ll kill you. Shoot it, for God’s sake!’
The boar faced the Englishman, lowered its head as if to charge and then turned and disappeared into the undergrowth. Olivia, who had not realised she had been holding her breath, let it out in a great sigh of relief. Her rescuer turned and held out his arms. ‘Jump!’
She eased herself off the branch and dropped into his arms. It was only when she was safe on the ground, with his arm round her and his heart beating steadily against hers, that she realised she was shaking. She hid her head in the rough material of his coat, wishing she had the strength or even the will to pull herself away. ‘It is all right now,’ he said gently, making no move to release her. ‘It won’t come back.’ He thought she was afraid! Well, she had been, just a little, but what was so annoying was that he had witnessed her helplessness. How could she boast that she could manage without him, when clearly she could not?
She moved away from him and began gathering up pine cones for fuel. ‘You’ve brought supper, I see,’ she said, to cover her confusion. ‘I did not hear a shot.’
‘I did not shoot it.’
‘No, I suppose you caught it and strangled it with your bare hands. Why must you lie?’
‘I always tell the truth. Now, how about a fire, while I skin and clean it? I take it you have no aversion to eating it?’
‘No.’
‘Double standards,’ he muttered to himself as he took a knife from his saddle-bag and set to work on the animal. ‘What is the difference between eating hare and eating kid?’
‘The hares do not belong to anyone.’
‘Of course it has nothing to do with the fact that kids are soft, adorable creatures who love their mothers.’
‘Not at all.’
He laughed and began to hum a marching song as he worked.
‘Why didn’t you shoot it?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you shoot the boar?’
‘Why waste a bullet when it is unnecessary? Besides, the guerrilleros might hear a shot. You said yourself that sound carries a long way in the mountains.’ He turned to face her. ‘And you had best put a shelter round that fire; that might be seen too.’
‘Do you know where the Spaniards are?’
‘Not far away.’
She did as he suggested and moved quietly about her tasks, and when their meal was over she wrapped herself in Philippe’s coat and settled down to sleep. He sat down with his back to a tree, his rifle across his knee and stared into the dying fire as if he could see pictures in its embers. What could he see, she wondered, things past or things yet to come? Were his thoughts on things he had done or those he had left undone? Was he even aware of her as a woman? She brought herself up short, reminding herself of her determination to remain free. Her apparent dependence on him tonight was just a momentary lapse and best forgotten.
He was still sitting in the same position when a new day showed itself in a lighter sky above the tree-tops and woke her.
‘Have you been awake all night?’ she demanded.
‘No, I slept. Come now, we must be on our way.’
She rose drowsily. There was no opportunity for a toilette but she wished she had water to wash. Almost as if he could read her mind, he produced yesterday’s wine bottle now filled with fresh water. ‘Where did you get that?’
He laughed. ‘The same place as I found the hare. Drink a little and use the rest to wash. With luck we shall be back in civilisation before we need more.’
She accepted it gratefully and five minutes later they set off again through the trees, picking their way along an ill-defined path and then out on to an open hillside where the sound of rushing water told them they had found the river again. He had been right about cutting off the bend. Why did he have to be right about everything? Her musing was brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of gunfire. He stopped just ahead of her and she drew alongside him. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Stay here.’ He moved off ahead of her towards the sound. She waited a moment or two and then curiosity drove her to disobey and follow him.
They could see the river again, narrower than it was but cut even deeper into the mountain rock, so that it lay at the bottom of a precipitous gorge. Straddling it, high above the foaming water, was a narrow wooden bridge. On the other side of the bridge, its walls continuing the face of the cliff as if it were part of it, was a monastery, guarding the bridge and the approach road. On the road was a French supply train, which had halted just short of the monastery.
They watched from their vantage-point on the other side of the river as the escort to the wagons exchanged fire with unseen protagonists hidden in the rocks and trees of the mountainside.
‘Guerrilleros,’ Olivia said.
‘I told you to stay back.’
She ignored his censure. ‘They got ahead of us.’
‘It’s hardly surprising; they know the terrain like their own backyards.’
‘But what is a supply train doing so high up in the mountains?’
He smiled. ‘Like us, they have been driven up here by the blowing of the lower bridge. Now Don Santandos has them where he wants them. Anyone holding the monastery holds the pass. Nothing can get through.’
He seemed to be right, because the murderous gunfire had killed most of the French troops and the rest had thrown down their arms and surrendered. The partisans poured out of their hiding places and surrounded them. Olivia could see Don Santandos giving orders to his men to drag the wagons into the monastery and then he turned to his prisoners. She cried out in horror when she saw him deliberately shoot them as they knelt on the ground.
‘Monster!’ she cried. ‘Barbaric monster. They had surrendered.’
‘I told you he was ruthless. Perhaps you will believe me now.’
‘Oh, I believe you. And will you admit I was right and we should have turned south?’
‘I admit nothing.’
‘No, because you are pigheaded.’
He laughed aloud. ‘I must be a very strange animal; a leopard with a pig’s head. Perhaps if I have no claws I might be permitted to have tusks.’
‘It is no laughing matter. What are we going to do?’
‘Wait until dark. Then I will go down and look.’
‘Not without me, you don’t.’
‘You will stay behind even if I have to tie you up, do you hear? Good God, woman, you don’t know how to keep silent and I mean to go as close as I dare.’
‘To what purpose?’
‘We have to cross the bridge.’
‘Right under their noses. I suppose you have a plan to make us invisible?’
He did not consider the question worth answering but turned and made his way slowly along the top of the cliff, looking for somewhere to shelter. She followed, very aware that they were exposed to the view of anyone who might happen to glance across the river. Luckily the Spaniards seemed more concerned with taking the wagons into the courtyard of the monastery than in posting look-outs. The path grew very narrow and they were obliged to dismount and lead the animals. ‘I hope you know where you are going,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I do not fancy a cold bath, even supposing I survive the fall.’
His answer was to lead the way into a cave. This will do. Now we wait.’
They settled down in the mouth of the cave, with their mounts safely behind them, and in minutes he was sound asleep, which convinced her he had stayed awake all the previous night, in spite of what he had told her. She sat there looking at him. In sleep he looked young. Perhaps he was young, but there was nothing like a war for ageing a man. Tom had been immature and gullible when he’d enlisted, but within months, if not weeks, he had grown up, had become hardened, like well-worn leather, brown and creased, but tough. The soldier who had died was not the young lad who had fallen victim to the recruiting sergeant’s patter. And she was not the girl who had left home so consumed by love, so full of defiance, so confident she knew what she wanted. The confidence she had now was confidence of a different sort. It was all to do with self-preservation, the will to survive, the conviction that you never knew what you could endure until you put it to the test.
She smiled. If her contemporaries at home could see her now, they would be shocked to the core. Yet, looking back, it was an experience she would not have missed, but one she did not want to repeat. Home was her goal.
When the light began to go from the sky, the Englishman stirred and sat up. ‘Better eat,’ he said, going to his saddle-bag and fetching out the last of the hare. ‘Then it will be time to go.’
You are surely not going to leave me here alone?’
‘Most decidedly I am.’ He looked up from dividing the food. ‘If you are afraid, I will leave the rifle.’
‘Won’t you need it?’
‘No. This is purely reconnaissance.’ He bolted his meat and fetched the gun. ‘Here. It is loaded, so take care what you do with it. If you need me, fire into the air. Take hold of it so and point it upwards and pull the trigger. It will rebound, so be prepared.’
‘Very well,’ she said meekly.
He took Thor’s reins and led him out on to the path. ‘Don’t fire unless you really must.’
He paused, as if reluctant to leave her, or pehaps reluctant to leave the weapon. ‘How long must I wait?’ she asked. ‘If you do not come back.’
‘Until dawn, but I shall be back long before that.’
She listened as his footsteps and the clop of hoofs died away, then sat down to wait. But Olivia was not a passive person; waiting was something she had never learned to do. She decided to make her way back along the path towards the track which led to the bridge, to see if she could see him going over. And if he managed to cross safely, why then should she not follow? It would save him having to come back for her. She had no sooner convinced herself of the sense of that than she was leading the mule back along the path, feeling her way carefully in the failing light.
She did not see him, though her eyes ached with trying to make out his form among the shadows. She jumped at every sound — the bleat of a goat, the hoot of an owl. As she drew nearer to the bridge, she could hear sounds of revelry coming from the monastery. There was a guard on the far side of the bridge outside the entrance to the building, pacing up and down, watching the road from the east. He did not seem to be interested in the path from the mountains. Had Mr Leopard evaded him? Could she pass him too? The sound of the water was loud enough to muffle the sound of her footsteps, but to take the mule as well would be too risky. She left it with reins trailing and set off across the bridge, darting from shadow to shadow until she was on the far side and very close to the sentry.
And there she froze. Two partisans appeared and called cheerfully to the guard, who answered and then turned towards the bridge. He went down a few steps and peered downwards towards the water as if expecting trouble from that direction. Olivia noticed the rough path down the cliff as she moved lightly out and across the road while his back was turned. By the time he had returned to his post, she was in the shadow of the monastery gate. Now what to do? she asked herself.
The sentry was coming back. There was only one way to go and that was into the courtyard. She darted across to hide behind the nearest of the French wagons which stood just inside the gate. Here she stopped to peer out at the guerrilleros who stood in a circle, facing inwards. In their centre the Englishman sat on his horse with his hands tied behind him. Around his neck was another rope and the end of this had been thrown over a branch of a gnarled cork oak.
‘Thieves we hang,’ Don Santandos said, addressing his prisoner. ‘And it matters not whether they be French, English or Spanish.’
‘You are not thieves, then?’ Mr Leopard said, levelly. ‘You have stolen nothing.’
‘Nothing that was not ours to begin with. Now you will die unless you can prove who you are and why you are spying.’
‘I was not spying.’
‘But you were thieving?’
There was no answer and Don Santandos walked round the horse, stroking its haunch. A good thump would set it off and leave the Englishman hanging. ‘Oh, not again!’ Olivia whispered. ‘Not again.’
‘Where is the woman?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
Olivia held her breath. Surely he would not rather die than reveal her whereabouts? It did not matter; she was not where he supposed her to be. Tell him, you fool, she pleaded silently. Tell him what he wants to know.
But he remained silent and Don Santandos was losing patience. ‘Englishmen are fools when it comes to women,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you want to die. Then I give you your wish.’ He raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the rump of the horse, leaving the Englishman swinging.
‘Oh, no,’ Olivia whispered. ‘No, you do not do this to me twice.’
Slowly, achingly slowly, she raised the rifle, rested it on the tailboard of the wagon and carefully took aim.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4c87bcca-17c1-5f45-9aab-6a768414ab9b)
FOR one infinitesimal moment after the shot was fired, no one moved, except the Englishman, whose body fell to the ground with a thump and lay still. Olivia, from her hiding place, smiled in triumph and patted the butt of the heavy Baker rifle which had made it possible. But then all was commotion as some of the guerrilleros ran for guns which had been stacked against the wall and others turned towards the wagon where the difting gunsmoke betrayed her position. Now she had to keep the initiative and there was no time to reload. She darted out from her hiding place and ran to where the Leopard lay. Still startled, the men did nothing to stop her.
‘You imbeciles!’ she shouted. ‘You could have killed him!’
Don Santandos was the first to recover. ‘That, madame, was our intention,’ he said. ‘And but for your lucky shot he would be dead by now.’
She bit off the retort that it had not been luck but marksmanship, and concentrated on playing the distraught female. In a way she was distraught; without Mr Leopard, she was lost; reluctantly she had to admit it. ‘He is my husband,’ she said. ‘He is the one who will tell you I am who I say I am. Oh, if he dies…’
The partisans were watching, doing nothing, but she could not expect them to remain inactive for long; she had to convince them. ‘Darling! Darling, speak to me,’ she cried, as she worked to loosen the rope around their victim’s neck. She put her ear to his chest. His heart was beating like a hammer on an anvil. ‘You are my husband,’ she whispered, bending low over him so that her face was against his ear. ‘Tell me your name.’ When he did not reply, she lifted her head to look at him, wondering if he had heard her, or even if he could speak. His eyes were closed and there was an angry red weal round his neck where the rope had been.
‘Oh, do not die on me, my love!’ she cried, with more anguish than ever for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘I love you. I need you.’
She was not sure, but she thought she detected a slight grin on his face and hoped fervently no one else had seen it. To make sure of that, she bent and kissed him on the mouth and was completely taken aback when he put his arm round her neck so that her head was imprisoned and kissed her back. Where he found the strength to hold her so firmly after what he had been through she did not know. She was acutely aware of their audience as the kiss lengthened and became something more than a mere meeting of lips.
Then he moved his mouth, oh, so slowly, round to her ear, making her shiver. ‘Robert,’ he croaked. ‘Robert Lynmount.’
‘Come now, madame,’ Don Santandos said. ‘Enough is enough. Such antics are best left to the bedroom and prove nothing.’
She looked up at the Spaniards who stood round grinning and covered her confusion with a show of anger. ‘You may think yourselves lucky that my husband is not dead, for Viscount Wellington would certainly have had something to say about it, I can tell you. Robert Lynmount is one of his most valued officers.’
Don Santandos laughed. ‘I would say his value is less than a dozen buttons and a metre of braid.’
She chose to ignore this reference to the Englishman’s mutilated uniform. ‘Now, will you please help him to a bed where he can recover?’ She prayed her authoritative manner would have the desired effect, because they had no hope of fighting their way out, even if she still held the gun and could reload.
‘You have courage, madame, I’ll grant you,’ Don Santandos said. ‘It has earned you both a reprieve, albeit a temporary one.’ He turned to give orders to two of his men who went to pick the Englishman up, one at his head and the other at his feet, but before they could do so he sat up and pushed them away. They stood back and watched as he forced himself to his feet. He stood, swaying a little before finding his balance, but Olivia knew better than to try to help him. He was an exceptionally strong man and he was also proud.
Don Santandos smiled. ‘Good. Come with me.’ He turned to lead the way into the building.
Olivia, tagging along behind, realised it had been a long time since the monastery had been used for the purpose for which it had been built. It was a small fortress; every window was a gun embrasure, with weapons and ammunition at the ready. There was food stacked in the room which had once been the monks’ kitchens and truckle-beds and straw paliasses were scattered about. They were obviously preparing for a siege. If they thought she and Philippe had been aware of their preparations when they captured them, it was no wonder they had been so anxious that they should not return to Ciudad Rodrigo and the French army.
‘You look surprised, madame,’ Don Santandos said in French. ‘Why should that be?’
‘Please do not call me madame. I am not French; I have told you so a dozen times. My name is Mrs Lynmount. And yes, I am surprised to find so much preparation for war in a place like this.’
‘Because it is a monastery? They were built to withstand sieges, Mrs Lynmount.’
She was glad that he had changed to English; perhaps he was ready to be convinced, after all. ‘Not just that, but because it is so far from the main road. I can’t imagine an army deciding to come this way. The ground is too rough and the way too narrow.’
‘It would come if there was no alternative. What we have done for a small force, we can do for a greater. Now I have said enough.’ He opened the door to one of the monks’ cells. ‘You will be comfortable in here until we decide what to do with you.’
As soon as they had gone, Robert collapsed on to the narrow bed which stood against the wall, and shut his eyes. His hand strayed to his throat and he tried to swallow.
She knelt beside him. ‘Is there anything I can do to ease it? A bandage perhaps?’
‘I must…thank you for…my deliverance.’
‘I was angry.’
He grinned, but it was more a grimace of pain. ‘Angry enough to attempt…the impossible… The luck of the…gods must have been with you.’
‘Luck didn’t come into it,’ she said, busily tearing the hem off her petticoat to make a bandage. ‘I have been a crack shot ever since I was big enough to lift a pistol.’
His disbelief was obvious, but she let it pass; she was used to it. ‘Even a rifleman…would consider that a…shot in a thousand,’ he said. ‘And you must have known…that even if it succeeded…you would be taken prisoner.’
‘It was you who said “sufficient unto the day”. And they had no right to do what they did. After all, they are supposed to be our allies.’ Her touch was gentle as she wound the makeshift bandage round his neck; it belied the sharpness of her tongue. ‘And you would do better not to try and talk.’
‘It was…a brave thing to do.’ His voice was becoming stronger as the effects of his ordeal wore off. ‘Especially as you are not sure of my…loyalty to my country.’
‘It does not matter what I think; it is the guerrilleros you have to convince. I told them when they first captured me that I was Philippe’s prisoner and that I was married to an English soldier. You must be that soldier. You went absent without leave to look for me. You must make them believe it. Persuade them to let us go back to our own lines.’
‘Us? Does that mean you are throwing in your lot with mine, after all?’
‘Only until we are out of this scrape.’
‘You would not be in a scrape if you had done as you were bidden and waited on the other side of the gorge for me.’
She had got herself into this mess, it was true, but it had started long before she met him. She smiled. ‘I would have had a long wait.’
‘Better than dying with me.’
‘I do not intend to die.’ She leaned back to look at her handiwork. ‘Why were they trying to hang you? What were you supposed to have stolen?’
‘A mule.’
‘For me?’ Her obvious surprise made him smile crookedly.
‘How else could I have persuaded you to come with me?’
‘And the bread?’
‘I don’t think they have missed that even now.’
She was beginning to look at him in a new light; he was certainly resourceful as well as brave and strong. ‘The hare too? And the water?’
‘Why not?’
‘You fool! And all for nothing.’
‘Nothing, my dear Olivia? How can you say that when Dame Fortune has smiled on our endeavours and given us a sure sign we are meant to go on?’
‘Whatever are you talking about?’
He touched his neck gingerly. ‘Now I don’t have to pretend, I can be a silent Philippe and be convincing.’
‘Oh, you are impossible! It is out of the question, and if the guerrilleros hear that you intend to go to the French they will make sure we do not escape. They may decide that hanging is too good for us and try torture. Besides, if the French are sending supply wagons as far forward as this, they must have left Ciudad Rodrigo to continue their advance.’
‘Do you know how far forward we are?’
‘No, and I doubt the guerrilleros will tell us.’
He sat up suddenly, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled her up beside him as footsteps sounded on the stone floor outside their cell. When the door opened he was holding her in a tight embrace and his lips were on hers. To have tried to resist would have made the man who stood in the doorway suspicious and yet she did not want the Englishman to think that kissing strange men was something she made a habit of and he could do it with impunity. She had had two husbands before but neither had kissed her like this. His strength and determination went into that kiss, but it was more than that; it hinted at a latent passion which promised all manner of delight if only she would submit and return fire with fire.
But she would not; he was taking advantage of their situation and it just would not do. But even as the thought crossed her mind she was weakening; his mouth, exploring hers, overwhelmed her senses and made her whole traitorous body melt against his. She forgot everything — her surroundings, her widowhood, even the man who stood in the doorway, as she succumbed to a need she had never before acknowledged.
Robert lifted his head at last and looked over her shoulder at the newcomer. ‘Go away; can’t you see I am busy?’
The spell had been broken and she took the opportunity to pull herself away and sit up, now acutely aware of the smiling Spaniard. ‘The chief sent me to fetch you to join him for supper. Come, follow me.’
Reluctantly Robert rose to obey and Olivia, struck dumb, could do nothing but follow as their guide conducted them to the refectory, where almost the whole band of partisans were sitting around a table laden with food and bottles of wine.
‘Sit down, my friends,’ Don Santandos said, waving a chicken leg at them. ‘Eat heartily. Let it not be said Don Santandos does not know how to treat his prisoners.’ He looked up at Robert. ‘I trust your neck is not too uncomfortable for you to swallow?’ He pointed at two empty spaces on the bench next to him and waited until they had taken their seats and food had been set before them. Then he filled their glasses. ‘You were lucky, you know,’ he said, addressing Robert. ‘So lucky it is almost unbelievable, and because of that I am inclined to take it as a sign that you are not meant to die — not yet.’ He smiled. ‘We might have other uses for you.’
Robert, who was reluctant to put food into his mouth in case he could not swallow it, picked up his glass and held it up in salute to Don Santandos. ‘Be assured, Don Santandos, if I can be of service, I shall deem it an honour. After all, one good turn deserves another.’ He sipped the wine. Olivia, watching, noticed the almost imperceptible wince of pain as he swallowed it.
The Spaniard laughed. ‘It is a good turn to be half strangled?’
‘No, señor, I was referring to the fact that you had done me the service of killing the man who took my wife, and saved me the trouble.’
‘Ahh.’ He looked at Robert’s untouched plate. ‘Would you rather have soup, my friend? It will go down more easily.’ He clicked his fingers and one of his men hurried to the kitchens. ‘We shall, of course, have to have proof of your story. You have no papers, nothing on your uniform to tell us which regiment you came from, nor your rank. And there are no British troops this side of the Coa.’
‘You are wrong.’
‘You mean Craufurd’s Light Division?’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘It is hardly a secret.’ Don Santandos paused to swallow his glass of wine in one gulp. ‘For someone who is supposed to be covering a retreat, he is being particularly aggressive. Is that where you came from?’
‘No.’
‘Why are you alone?’
‘He came looking for me.’ Olivia found her voice at last.
‘And who would not want to search for so beautiful an example of the fair sex?’ The Spaniard laughed suddenly. ‘Even if she does handle a rifle like a trooper.’
‘Better,’ she said, making him laugh again.
He turned to Robert. ‘You have taught her well, but don’t you think a gun in the hands of a woman is a fatal combination?’
‘It is only fatal if I want it to be,’ she snapped quickly. ‘And I can out-shoot any man here. Give me a weapon and I will prove it.’
Don Santandos roared with laughter, and though his men had not understood the conversation they knew something had tickled the fancy of their chief and followed suit. ‘You are a trier, I give you that,’ he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. ‘But I am not such a fool as to fall for that one.’
‘It was worth a try,’ she said, smiling.
‘I think,’ said Robert, as a bowl of soup was set before him, ‘I think I have a better proposition than that.’
‘Oh, let us hear it. It will amuse us while we wait.’
‘Wait for what?’ Olivia demanded.
No one answered her. Robert stood up and beckoned to Don Santandos. ‘A word in your ear, señor.’
Two or three of the partisans pushed back the bench on which they sat, making it overturn with a clatter, and rushed to seize Robert’s arms. He stood without struggling, still looking towards their leader. ‘Come, Don Santandos, I am weak and helpless and I give you my parole.’
‘No!’ Olivia shrieked, knowing that his parole would bind him to refrain from trying to escape. ‘You fool!’
‘It seems your wife has more spunk than you do, Englishman. No wonder she preferred the company of the Frenchman.’
‘I did not! Why will you not believe me?’
‘Because, Mrs Lynmount, we had been watching you for some time before we took you prisoner and we saw what we saw. Would you like me to tell your husband that you were not behaving like a prisoner? Shall we tell him what we saw?’
‘There is no need for that.’
‘Are you afraid he would beat you?’
‘He should understand that when a woman has a choice between…’ She shrugged, allowing them to guess her meaning.
‘You mean your courage deserted you and you did not fight for your honour? Oh, Mrs Lynmount, you disappoint me.’
‘It was be his prisoner or be left to the mercy of his men.’ She deliberately turned from him and began to eat. ‘I will speak no more on the subject. If my husband is satisfied, then so should you be.’
‘Are you satisfied?’ Don Santandos asked Robert.

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