He led her across to the great chestnut horse that stood waiting so patiently, his grip light but unbreakable around her arm, releasing her only long enough to mount and lift her up before him. She was sitting sideways, holding on to the front of the saddle with her left hand, and trying not to hold on to Dammartin with her right
Dammartin looked pointedly at where the hand rested upon her skirts. ‘We shall be travelling at speed.’
She gave a nod. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘As you will, mademoiselle.’
As they reached the surface of the road, the horse began to canter, and Josie gripped suddenly at Dammartin to stop herself from being thrown from the saddle. By the time the canter became a gallop, Josie was clinging tight to the French Captain’s chest, while he secured her in place with an anchoring arm around her waist.
Stars shone like a thousand diamond chips scattered over a black velvet sky. The silver sickle of the moon bathed all in its thin magical light, revealing the road ahead that would lead them back to the French camp.
For Josie there would be no escape.
Dammartin swigged from the hip flask, the brandy burning a route down to his stomach. The fire burned low before them, and most of the men had already retired for the night. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the flask to Lamont.
‘The men were taking bets on whether you would find her.’ Lamont took a gulp of the brandy before returning the flask.
‘Did you win?’ asked Dammartin.
‘Of course,’ replied the little Sergeant with a smile, and patted his pocket. ‘I know you too well, my friend.’
They sat quietly for a few minutes, the sweet smell of Lamont’s pipe mingling pleasantly with that of the brandy, the logs cracking and shifting upon the fire.
‘She has courage, the little mademoiselle.’ It was Lamont who broke the silence.
‘She does,’ agreed Dammartin, thinking of Josie halfway up that rock face, and the way she had defied him to the end. He glanced towards the tents.
Lamont followed his captain’s eyes, before returning his gaze to the glow of the burning logs. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘Take her to Ciudad Rodrigo as I am commanded.’
‘I mean, this night.’
‘What does one do with any prisoner who has attempted to escape?’ Dammartin poked at the embers of the fire with a stick.
‘She is gently bred, and a woman. You would not…?’ Lamont’s words petered out in uncertainty.
There was a silence in which Dammartin looked at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are too much your father’s son.’
Dammartin smiled at his old friend, and fitted the top back on to his hip flask, before slipping it into his pocket. ‘But she is too much Mallington’s daughter.’
There was the soft breath of the wind while both men stared wordlessly into the fire.
‘Why did she run, Pierre? The girl is no fool; she must have realised her chance of survival was slim?’
‘She was afraid.’ Dammartin’s gaze did not shift from the warm orange glow of the dying fire as he remembered Mademoiselle Mallington’s face in the moonlight as she stood at the foot of the slope. He had felt the tremor in her body, heard the fear beneath the defiance in her words. I will never answer your questions, no matter how many times you ask them. He heard the whisper of them even now. ‘Afraid of interrogation.’
Lamont gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘There is nothing of any use she can tell us now.’
‘I would not be so certain of that.’
‘Pierre…’ the older man chided.
‘I will question her again,’ interrupted Dammartin. ‘But her only fear need be what answers she will spill.’
‘And when we reach Ciudad Rodrigo, what then?’
‘Then she is no longer my problem,’ said Dammartin.
Lamont sucked at his pipe for a few moments, as if weighing Dammartin’s answer. ‘It is a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo.’
‘Do not worry, Claude.’ Dammartin gave Lamont a clap on the back. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington will give us no more trouble. I will make certain of that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sleep well, my old friend.’ And began to make his way across the small distance to where the officers’ tents were pitched.
‘And you, my captain,’ said Lamont softly, as he sat by the fire and watched Dammartin disappear beneath the canvas of his tent.
The girl was sitting at the little table, busy working her hair into a plait when Dammartin entered the tent. She jumped to her feet, her hair abandoned, the ribbon fluttering down to lie forgotten upon the ground sheet. From the corner of his eye he could see a white frilled nightdress spread out over the covers of his bed.
‘What are you doing here, Captain Dammartin?’ she demanded, her face peaked and shocked.
‘Retiring to bed.’
Her eyes widened with indignation and the unmistakable flicker of fear. ‘In my tent?’
‘The tent is mine.’ He walked over to the small table and chair.
Even beneath the lantern light he could see the blush that swept her cheeks. ‘Then I should not be here, sir.’ Hurrying over to the bed, she slipped her feet into her boots sitting neatly by its side, before grabbing up the nightdress and rolling it swiftly to a ball. ‘There has clearly been some kind of misunderstanding. If you would be so kind as to direct me to the women’s tent.’
‘You are a prisoner, mademoiselle, not a camp follower. Besides, the women’s tent is within the camp of the infantry, not my dragoons. As a prisoner of the 8th, you stay with me.’
‘Then you can show me the tent in which I am to stay the night.’ She stood facing him squarely, clutching the nightdress in a crumpled mass like a shield before her, ready to do battle.
‘You are already within that tent.’ He turned away and began to unbutton his jacket.
‘Indeed, I am not, sir!’ she exclaimed with force, and he could see the colour in her cheeks darken. ‘What manner of treatment is this? You cannot seriously expect that I will spend the night with you!’ Her nostrils flared. She stared at him as if she were some great warrior queen.
‘You speak of expectations, mademoiselle. Do you expect to be left overnight all alone, so that you may try again to escape?’
She gave a shake of her head, and the loose blonde plait hanging down against her breast began to unwind. ‘I would try no such thing. The night is too dark, and I have no torch.’
‘These things did not stop you this evening.’
‘There was still daylight then.’
‘Hardly,’ he said, and shrugging off his jacket, hung it over the back of the wooden chair by the table.
‘I give you my word that I will not try to escape this night.’
‘Only this night?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘It is this night of which we are speaking.’
‘So you are planning another attempt tomorrow.’
‘No!’
‘Tomorrow night, then?’
‘Very well, I give you my word that I will not attempt another escape.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘So now will you arrange for another tent?’
‘Your word?’ He heard his voice harden as the memories came flooding back unbidden, the grief and revenge bitter within his mouth. He gave an angry, mirthless laugh. ‘But how can I trust that when the word of a Mallington is meaningless.’
‘How dare you?’ she exclaimed, and he could see the fury mounting in her eyes.
He smiled a grim determined smile. ‘Most easily, Mademoiselle, I assure you.’
‘I have nothing more to say to you, sir.’ She spun on her heel, and began to stride towards the tent flap.
Dammartin’s hand shot out and, fixing a firm hold around her upper arm, hoisted her back. She struggled to escape him, but Dammartin just grabbed hold of her other arm and hauled her back to face him. Her arms were slight beneath his hands and he was surprised again at how small and slender she
was, even though he had felt her body beneath his upon the rock face only a few hours since. He adjusted his grip so that he would not hurt her and pulled her closer.
She quietened then, looked up at him with blue eyes that were stormy. The scent of lavender surrounded her, and he could not help himself glance at the pale blonde hair that now spilled loose around her shoulders.
‘But I have not finished in what I have to say to you, mademoiselle.’ The nightdress slipped from her fingers, falling to lie between them.
They both glanced down to where the white frills lay in a frothy pool against the black leather of Dammartin’s boots.
And when he looked again, her eyes had widened slightly and he saw the fear that flitted through them.
He spoke quietly but with slow, deliberate intent, that she would understand him. ‘All the tents upon this campsite are filled, and even were they not, my men have travelled far this day and I would not drag a single one from their rest to guard against any further escape attempt that you may make. So tonight, I guard you myself. Do not complain of this situation, for you have brought it upon yourself, mademoiselle, with your most foolish behaviour.’ He lowered his face towards hers until their noses were almost touching, so close that they might have been lovers.
He heard the slight raggedness of her breathing, saw the rapid rise and fall of her breast, and the way that the colour washed from her cheeks as she stared back at him, her eyes wide with alarm.
The silence stretched between them as the soft warmth of her breath whispered against his lips like a kiss. His mouth parted in anticipation, and for one absurd moment he almost kissed her, almost, but then he remembered that she was Mallington’s daughter, and just precisely what Lieutenant Colonel Mallington had done, and all of the misery and all of the wrathful injustice was back.
His heart hardened.
When finally he spoke his voice was low and filled with harsh promise. ‘Do not seek to escape me again, Mademoiselle Mallington. If you try, your punishment shall be in earnest. Do you understand me?’
She gave a single nod of her head; as Dammartin released his grip, she stumbled back, grabbing hold of the chair back, where his jacket hung, to steady herself.
He turned brusquely away, pulling two blankets and a pillow from the bed and dropping them on to the ground sheet beside the bed. ‘Make yourself a bed. We leave early tomorrow and must sleep.’
She just stood there, by the table, looking at him, her face pale and wary.
He did not look at her, just sat down on the bed and removed his boots.
And still she stood there, until at last his gaze again met hers.
‘Make up your bed, unless you have a wish to share mine, mademoiselle.’
An expression of shock crossed her face and she hurriedly did as she was bid, extinguishing the lantern before climbing beneath the blankets on the groundsheet.
Dammartin did not sleep, and neither did the girl. The sound of her breathing told him that she lay as awake as he, so close to his bed that he might have reached his arm down and touched her. The wind buffeted at the canvas of the tent, but apart from that everything was silent.
He did not know how long he lay listening, aware of her through the darkness, turning one way and then the next as if she could find no comfort on the hardness of the ground. He rolled over, conscious of the relative softness of his own mattress, and felt the first prickle of conscience.
Goddamn it, she was his prisoner, he thought, and he’d be damned if he’d give his bed up for Mallington’s daughter. Just as he was thinking this, he heard her soft movements across the tent, and with a reflex honed by years of training, reached out through the darkness to grab at her dress.
He felt her start, heard her gasp loud in the deadness of the night.
‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said quietly, ‘do you disregard my warning so readily?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I seek only my cloak. The night is cold. I am not trying to escape.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up, guiding her back towards him, turning her in the blackness and tracing his hands lightly around her, like a blindman, until he found her hands. Even through the wool of her dress he could feel that she was chilled. Her fingers were cold beneath his before she pulled away from his touch.
‘Go back to your bed, mademoiselle,’ he said curtly.
‘But my cloak…’
‘Forget your cloak, you shall not find it in this darkness.’
‘But—’
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said more harshly.
He heard the breath catch in her throat as if she would have given him some retort, but she said nothing, only climbed beneath the blankets that he had given her earlier that night.
Dammartin swept his greatcoat from where it lay over his bed, and covered the girl with it.
‘Captain Dammartin…’ He could hear her surprise.
‘Go to sleep,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thank you,’ came the soft reply.
He turned over and pulled the blanket higher, knowing himself for a fool and slipping all the more easily into the comfort of sleep because of it.
Josie awoke to the seep of thin grey daylight through the canvas overhead. Sleep still fuddled her mind and she smiled, burrowing deeper beneath the cosiness of the covers, thinking that her father would tease her for her tardiness. Voices sounded outside, French male, and reality came rushing back in, exploding all of her warm contentment: Telemos, her father’s death, Dammartin. Clutching the blankets to her chest she sat up, glancing round apprehensively.
The bed in which Dammartin had slept lay empty; she was alone in the tent. The breath that Josie had been holding released, relief flowed through her. She got to her feet, her head woolly and thick from her lack of sleep.
How may hours had she lain awake listening to the French Captain’s breathing, hearing it slow and become more rhythmic as he found sleep? For how many hours had the thoughts raced through her head? Memories of her father and of Telemos. She had spoken the truth; the night was black and most of the fires would be dead; she had no torch, and she did not doubt that there would be sentries guarding the camp. Her chance of escape had been lost. He would watch her more carefully now.
A shudder ran through her as she remembered how he had held her last night, his face so close to hers that the air she breathed had been warmed by his lungs. His dark penetrating gaze locked on to hers so that she could not look away. For a moment, just one tiny moment, she had thought that he meant to kiss her, before she saw the pain and bitterness in his eyes. And she blushed that she could have thought such a ridiculous notion. Of course he did not want to kiss her, he hated her, just as she hated him. There was no mistaking that. He hated her, yet he would not let her go.
I do not lose prisoners, he had said. And she had the awful realisation that he meant to take her all the way to Ciudad Rodrigo—far away from Torres Vedras, and Lisbon and the British—and in the miles between lay the prospect of interrogation.
Her eye caught the thick grey greatcoat, still lying where he had placed it last night, on top of her blankets. When she looked at the bed again, she saw its single woollen cover. The chill in the air nipped at her, and she knew that the night had been colder. She stared at the bed, not understanding why a man so very menacing, so very dangerous, who loathed her very existence, had given her his covers.
More voices, men walking by outside.
She glanced down at the muddy smears marking her crumpled dress, and her dirty hands and ragged nails—souvenirs of the rock face and her failed escape.
She was British, she reminded herself, and she would not allow the enemy to bring her down in such a way. So she smoothed the worst of her bed-mussed hair, and peeped out of the tent flap. Molyneux lingered not so very far away. He was kind; he spoke English…and he came when she beckoned him. It seemed that the Lieutenant was only too happy to fetch her a basin of water.
‘I apologise, mademoisel
le, for the coldness of the water, but there is no time to warm it.’ He smiled at her, his skin creasing round his eyes, and the wind ruffling the pale brown of his hair.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it.
Taking the basin from the Lieutenant’s hands, she glanced out at the campsite beyond. All around dragoons were busy putting out fires, packing up, dismantling. She recognised Dammartin’s sergeant, Lamont, speaking to a group of troopers, but Dammartin himself was nowhere that she could see.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, and disappeared within the tent flaps.
Dammartin glanced over towards his tent, but there was still no sign of Mademoiselle Mallington. Coffee had been drunk, bread eaten, portmanteaux packed, and the girl slept through it all. At least he had had the foresight to set Molyneux to guarding his tent, lest the girl took the notion into her head to try to slip away again. And truth be told, this would be the best time to do it, when the camp was in chaos, the men’s attentions distracted, and a full day of light ahead.
Lamont appeared. ‘The men will be ready to leave in twenty minutes. Only the officers’ tents remain. Mademoiselle Mallington…’ He looked enquiringly at Dammartin.
‘Shall be ready to leave with the rest of us,’ Dammartin replied.
‘You look a little tired this morning, Captain,’ said Lamont, his gaze fixed on Dammartin’s tent. ‘Perhaps something disturbed your sleep?’
Dammartin gave a wry smile and shook his head at his sergeant’s teasing, before walking off towards his tent.
‘She is in there still?’ he said to Molyneux as he passed, indicating his tent.
‘Yes, Captain.’
Dammartin closed the last of the distance to his tent.
‘But, sir, she…’
Molyneux’s words sounded behind him, but it was too late. Dammartin had unfastened the ties and was already through the tent flap…and the sight that met his eyes stilled him where he stood. A basin of water sat upon his table; Mademoiselle Mallington stood by its side, washing, bare to her waist.
The Captain's Forbidden Miss Page 7
