He remembered her anger, and her devastation, and the way she had clung to him in the night. I prayed that you would come, she had said. Him. Her enemy.
And he thought of Lieutenant Colonel Mallington firing the shot into his father’s body, just as he had thought of it every day for over the last eighteen months. She was the murderer’s daughter, his flesh and blood. He had every right to hate her, but it was no longer that simple. She had not known of her father’s crime, and she did not deserve what had happened to her, not in that room in Telemos, not his contempt, nor the assault by the bandits. Lamont had been right. She was a woman, a woman who had watched her father die, who was alone and afraid and the captive of an enemy army.
But there was still the matter of what Mallington had done, and Dammartin could not forgive or forget. The wound ran too deep for that. If he could have understood the reasons underlying Mallington’s crime, perhaps then there might have been some sort of end to it all, a semblance of peace. But Mallington had died taking his answers to the grave, leaving Dammartin with his anger and his bitterness…and his desire for Josephine Mallington.
As Lamont had said, it would be a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo, a long way indeed.
Josie rode silently by Molyneux’s side that day. The Lieutenant had been kind and understanding, trying to make the journey as comfortable as he could for her, but she could see that he did not know what to say to her. Even Sergeant Lamont had brought her a cup of hot coffee when they stopped to rest and eat, his gruff expression belying the small kindness. She could see the way they looked at her, with pity in their eyes, and Josie hated it. Their contempt would have been more welcome. She did not want to be vulnerable and afraid, an object of sympathy, and she resented the bandit even more that he could have made her so. And she knew what the bandit would have done had not Dammartin arrived.
Saved by the one man she had hated. It was under his command that her father and his men had been killed. He could be nothing other than her enemy. But Josie thought of the hole that his bullet had made within the bandit’s head, she thought of how he had taken her in his arms and held her. He had washed away the dirt and the stench and the blood, and stayed with her the whole night through, and lain his length beside her when she had begged him to stay. She had begged him. And that thought made Josie cringe with shame, yet last night, in the darkness the fear had been so very great that there had been no such embarrassment. Last night she had needed him, this man who hated with such passion.
Your father was a villain and a scoundrel, he had said, and she thought again of the terrible accusation he had made. Dammartin believed in it with all his heart. And she wondered why he should ever have come to think such a thing. How could he be so misled? There was only one man who could answer her questions.
Yesterday she would not have considered entering into a discussion with Dammartin over his accusation, but much had changed since then, and she knew that, for all the darkness and danger surrounding him, he would not hurt her. For all else that Dammartin was and for all else that he had done, he had saved her, and Josie would not forget that.
She rode on in silence, biding her time until evening when she would speak to the French Captain.
Chapter Seven
It had been a long day, long and cold and hard, and the dust of it still clung to Dammartin’s boots. Smoke drifted from the newly lit fires and the men busied themselves with cooking pots and rice and beans. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke and the damp air of impending night.
‘We head for Sabugal tomorrow,’ he said to Lamont. ‘The maps show that the mountains do not grow less and Foy is demanding we speed our current pace.’
‘Men will be lost if we push them too hard.’
‘More of Massena’s men are lost with every day that we delay.’ Dammartin rubbed wearily at the dark growth of stubble that peppered his jaw. ‘Our army is dying in this damned country for need of reinforcements.’
Lamont’s gaze focused over Dammartin’s right shoulder before swinging back to meet the Captain’s. ‘I think perhaps the mademoiselle wishes to speak with you. She keeps glancing over here.’
Dammartin’s expression remained unchanged. ‘I am busy. There remains much to be done this evening.’ He had no wish to speak to Mademoiselle Mallington. Matters concerning the girl were already too complicated for his liking.
Lamont sniffed and scratched at his chin. ‘After last night, I thought…’
Dammartin forced the images from his mind. ‘I would not wish what happened last night upon any woman, but she is still Mallington’s daughter, Claude. I cannot allow myself to forget that.’
Lamont said nothing for a few moments, just looked at his captain before giving a nod. ‘I will see to our evening meal.’ And he walked off.
Dammartin nodded over at Molyneux, and began to move towards his lieutenant. A woman’s step sounded behind him and there was the scent of lavender.
‘I wondered if I might speak with you, Captain Dammartin.’ There was a slightly awkward expression upon Mademoiselle Mallington’s face; she seemed almost embarrassed, and he knew that she was remembering last night, just as he was.
He opened his mouth to refuse her, noticing as he did the tendrils of fair hair that had escaped her bonnet to feather around her face and the shadow of the bruise that marked her jaw.
‘Concerning my father.’
Mallington. And he knew he would not refuse her after all. ‘Very well, mademoiselle.’
‘Perhaps we could talk somewhere more private.’
He felt the register of surprise, along with a sliver of excitement at the prospect of what it could be that she wished to tell him.
‘If that is what you desire.’
He saw Molyneux standing not so far away, the Lieutenant’s gaze darting between the girl and Dammartin.
‘There is a river down through the woodland.’
She nodded her agreement.
Dammartin headed towards the trees, leaving Molyneux staring after them.
They walked in silence through the woodland, down the slope that ran towards the river, with only the tread of their boots over soil and the snapping of twigs between them, until they left the clearing where the 8th Dragoons were camped some distance behind at the top of the gorge. Slightly to the east they could hear the sounds of the infantry’s camp, but it was not close enough to challenge their privacy.
He led her to the edge of a fast-flowing river, to where great boulders of rock clustered along its bank.
‘We shall not be overheard here,’ he said, and, leaning easily against a giant rock, looked out over the river.
Back up through the trees, from where they had come, he could just about see the carmine-coloured lapels of his men’s jackets as they moved about the camp. Had the red lapels not been there, the green of their uniform would have made an effective camouflage even though the woodland was bare and barren. Beyond the great stones the water flowed fast despite the lack of rain. In the fading light it was a deep greeny grey that foamed to white where the water splashed hard over its rocky bed. The noise of it was so loud and gushing as to be almost a roar.
Josie turned from the river to face him, feeling suddenly nervous. ‘There is not much time, Captain Dammartin. The daylight shall soon be gone and I would prefer to be back at the camp before it is dark.’ She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and prepared to speak the words she had come here to say.
He did not look round, just stayed where he was. ‘You are recovered from last night, mademoiselle?’
The question unsettled her, reminding of things best forgotten: bandits and nightmares and the warmth of Dammartin’s body sharing her bed. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
His eyes met hers, and they were a clear honey brown, rich with emotion that she could not name—compassion, affinity, protectiveness. ‘I am glad.’
And to Josie there was an intensity about the moment that set the butterflies fluttering in her stomach so that s
he had to look away.
The water rushed on. Somewhere in the distance was the thumping of axes splitting wood, and through the trees ahead she could see the sun was setting: a vibrant red halo surrounding the dark branches of the trees, as if a fire had touched against them, deep and hot and burning.
Still leaning his elbows on the stone boulder with the rosy pink light softening his face, he appeared to Josie ruggedly handsome. ‘What is it, then, that you wish to say?’
She turned her mind from its observations, reminding herself of why she had come here. ‘I wished to ask you of this…this accusation that you level at my father.’
He resumed his study of the river scene before him. ‘It is no mere accusation, mademoiselle, but the truth.’ And there was a weariness in his voice.
‘That is your belief, but it is not correct, sir.’
‘And this is what you wished to tell me?’ He stopped leaning against the rock and turned to face her, and she could see that anything of softness had vanished, that he was once again the dark and dangerous French Captain who had stormed the monastery in Telemos.
‘I did not come here to argue,’ she said quickly.
‘Really?’ He arched an arrogant eyebrow.
She glanced away, suddenly very aware that they were alone down here. ‘Did you witness your father’s death?’
There was only the sound of the river in reply.
She thought she saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, so brief that she could not be sure.
The muscle in his jaw clenched. ‘I did not.’
‘But you were there, with him, at Oporto?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
The smallest of pauses, before she asked gently, ‘Then how do you know the manner of his death?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said with the hard cynical breath of a laugh, ‘all of France knows what your father did to him!’
She bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. ‘Then, there were witnesses…to the crime?’
‘Yes, there was a witness,’ he said harshly. ‘An honourable man who is beyond reproach, if it is his word that you are seeking to discredit.’
His words stung at her. ‘What is there of honour in dishonesty?’ she replied.
A twig snapped close by, and Josie jumped. Both of them peered in the direction of the trees from whence it had come.
There was only silence and the dying light and stillness.
‘It is nothing,’ said Dammartin dismissively. ‘There is nothing to be gained in this, mademoiselle, we should return to the camp. The light begins to fade, and you said yourself that you are in a hurry to be back there.’ He made to move.
‘No, wait.’ She stepped forwards, blocking his path, needing to show him that he was wrong. ‘Before he died my father told me that you were an honourable man. He bade me trust you. If your accusation is true, I do not understand why he would say such a thing. When he saw you…when you came into that room in the monastery…when it was all but over, there was nothing of guilt or regret or fear in his eyes. He looked at you with respect. Given what you say, sir, how do you explain that?’
‘I cannot, but it does not mean that he was innocent.’
‘But will you not at least admit that his was not behaviour in keeping with a man that is guilty?’
‘It was not in keeping with what is expected of a man that is guilty,’ said Dammartin carefully.
‘He was dying, for goodness’ sake!’ she said, and the pain stabbed in her heart. ‘Do you really think that he would have bothered with pretence at such a time? What would have been the point?’
‘As you said, Lieutenant Colonel Mallington was dying, and leaving his beloved daughter alone with the son of the man he had murdered. I think he had every reason to behave as he did.’
‘You did not know him,’ she said quietly, and stared up into his now-shadowed face. ‘He was not such a man.’
‘You are his daughter. Of course you do not wish to believe the unpleasantness of the truth.’
‘No, you are wrong.’ But with the denial came the first whisper of doubt in Josie’s mind.
‘You were not there. You can never really know what happened in Oporto last year, can you, mademoiselle?’
She bent her head, pressing the tips of her fingers to the tightness across her forehead. The thought came to her in a flash, and she wondered why she had not realised it before. Her father’s journals—a log of all that had happened to Lieutenant Colonel Mallington and his men over the years—recorded by her papa’s own hand in book after precious book. She raised her chin, staring at him with renewed confidence, feeling the excitement of her realisation flow through the entirety of her body.
‘Oh, but you see, I can, sir,’ she exclaimed. ‘Every detail of every day.’ She smiled her relief.
It seemed that Dammartin’s lungs did not breathe, that his heart did not beat. ‘And how might that be, mademoiselle?’ he asked in a deathly quiet voice.
His very stillness alerted her to her mistake. ‘I…’ She swallowed, and glanced away, searching her mind frantically for a safe answer and finding none. She backed away. ‘You were right; we should be returning to camp. It will soon be dark and the trees—’
His hand snaked out and caught gently around her wrist, preventing her escape. ‘No, no, mademoiselle,’ he said softly, ‘our discussion, it begins to grow most interesting.’ The angles of his face seemed to sharpen and his eyes darken, as he became the hunter once more. ‘Captain Dammartin—’
‘Every detail of every day,’ he said slowly, repeating her words. ‘Where might you learn that, I wonder?’
She tried to free her wrist, but Dammartin’s hold was unbreakable. The thudding of her heart was so loud that she could no longer hear the river. Her breath was shallow and fast.
Foolish, foolish tongue, she cursed, to almost reveal what had remained hidden for so long. Her words had been too few, she told herself; he could not know, he could not. The journals would be safe.
Dammartin slowly pulled her closer, so that they were standing toe to toe within the twilight. ‘From your British newspapers of the time?’ His face tilted so that he was staring down at her.
‘I meant nothing by my words. You are mistaken…’ She tried to step away, but Dammartin secured her other wrist, locking her in place.
His head lowered towards hers so close that she could feel his breath, warm and soft against her face, and see the passion and determination within the darkness of his eyes. ‘From your father’s friends?’ he asked.
She felt the jolt that jumped between them as his mouth brushed against her cheek, light and transient.
‘Or perhaps from your father’s journals?’ he whispered softly into her ear.
The breath froze in Josie’s throat. The blood in her veins turned to ice. She could not suppress the shiver. ‘This is madness,’ she breathed at last. ‘My father kept no journal. Take me back to the camp at once.’ She pulled her face back from his, staring up at him.
‘Where are they, mademoiselle?’ Darkness had crept to cover the sky, but she could still see him through the dim silver moonlight.
‘You are quite, quite mistaken, sir.’
‘We can stay here all night and play this game. Or perhaps you prefer to tell me now where the journals are kept, so that we may eat something of our rice and beans.’
There was silence in which neither moved nor spoke.
‘At home, in England,’ she said at last, knowing that it was not the journals’ existence that was the secret to be protected, but their location. She thought of the irony of the journals’ true hiding place. ‘I will read them when I return to Winchester and then I will know exactly what happened between your father and mine in Oporto.’ She stared at him defiantly, knowing that she could not allow one shred of fear to show. ‘And I will warrant that it is not the lie that you French have told.’
He looked at her with his dark, penetrating stare, and it seemed to Josie that he could see into her
very soul.
For too long their gazes held, as if locked in some kind of strange battle of wills, and if battle it was, then Dammartin was the loser, for it was he who looked away first.
‘Let us return to the camp, mademoiselle,’ he said, and, taking her hand in his, he began to lead her back towards the woodland.
She let her fingers lie where they were, warm and comfortable within his own, despite knowing that she should be fighting his touch. But the night was dark and their route through the woodland steep and uneven, and her sense of relief and of triumph was greater than anything else.
Hand in hand, without a further word between them, Josie and Dammartin walked through the trees that would lead them back to the camp of the 8th Dragoons.
The campaign portmanteau which contained all of Josie’s worldly possessions sat opposite her makeshift bed within Dammartin’s tent. It was made of brown leather, battered and scratched from its many miles of travel following her father.
Josie unbuttoned the top of her dress and let the woollen material fall back to expose the chain that hung around her neck. Its golden links glinted within the soft light of the lantern. Her hand disappeared down her dress. From just above her breasts she retrieved what had been threaded to hang upon the chain: a small brass key. Kneeling down upon the groundsheet, she leaned forward towards the portmanteau, neatly turned the key in first one lock and then the other. The fastenings opened easily beneath her fingers. She opened the lid and rested it carefully back.
Inside were piles of neatly folded clothes. They were, in the main, garments that had been purchased with the practicalities of life on campaign in winter in mind. There were two woollen travelling dresses, a sensible pelisse, scarves, a shawl, gloves, a pair of sensible shoes that could be worn instead of her boots, and of course, a large pile of plain white warm underwear, the warmest that she had had. There were stockings and two nightdresses and ribbons and hairpins. Near the top there was a tiny silver and ivory set that included a comb and brush and hand-held looking glass. But Josie was interested in none of these things.
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