‘No,’ she pushed him away, and he could hear the slight breathlessness in her voice. ‘I must tell you…’
‘Then speak.’
‘I went in search of Major La Roque’s tent. I intended to go in, to talk to him, to ask him why he had lied about my father…and yours.’
‘Josephine—’ he started to chide, but she cut him off.
‘But Lieutenant Molyneux arrived before I could.’
Dammartin’s eyes narrowed. Molyneux.
‘I heard them talking through the canvas.’
‘Molyneux and La Roque?’
‘Yes.’ Her breaths were fast and shallow, her anxiety barely suppressed. ‘Molyneux is spying for him.’ He felt her fingers touch gently to his wrist. ‘He is spying on you, Pierre.’
He let her words drop between them, feeling a spurt of anger at what she sought to do. Quite deliberately he moved from her touch, smiling a sardonic smile through the darkness. ‘You must try harder, mademoiselle, to think of something more convincing. The story of the splinter and your flirtation with Molyneux was a much better effort.’
‘What are you speaking of?’ The pitch of her voice rose with incredulity.
‘Do you think that you can so easily cause trouble between us?’
‘It is the truth, I swear!’ she gasped. ‘La Roque used Molyneux to make you send me away. And Molyneux is the Major’s spy. It was they that stole my portmanteau…and my father’s journals.’
‘You admit, then, that the journals were in the portmanteau?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, no longer pretending any denial. ‘They were hidden beneath a false floor. La Roque has them now.’
‘Does he indeed?’ he asked quietly.
A pause.
Dammartin rubbed his fingers against the roughness of his chin as he remembered La Roque’s dismissive attitude to Dammartin’s own suspicions regarding the journals and the portmanteau. She had to be lying. She was Mallington’s daughter, an English prisoner, his enemy. La Roque was his senior officer, his godfather, a man who had been like an uncle to him since childhood. And then it dawned on him what he had been missing.
‘Vous parlez français, n’est pas?’ he shot at her.
‘Oui,’ she said, then reverted to English. ‘It was the one advantage that I had. I could not let you know of it.’
‘Then your story of following your father around the world, without schooling or governesses, was a lie too.’
‘It was the truth,’ she said.
There was a silence. Still, Dammartin did not believe what she was saying, and yet… He raked a hand through his hair.
‘How did you get here? There are sentries posted at all the camps. Did no one stop you?’
Josie thought of the men that had done precisely that. She thought of Thomass and the cruelty of his grip and the anger in his face. There was no need to tell Dammartin of such things. ‘I am in disguise. They did not see an English prisoner.’
He grabbed hold of her wrist and dragged her to the tent flap, opening it so that he could look on her in the moonlight.
‘No!’ She tried to resist.
‘I see no disguise, mademoiselle.’
‘Vraiment?’ she whispered furiously. ‘Regardez-moi de près, monsieur.’
Dammartin’s gaze drifted to her hair that was flowing long and wanton over her shoulders, then down lower to the thin shawl. The skin of Josie’s throat was exposed. He could see it, pale and smooth through the light of the moon. Anger flashed in her eyes as she yanked open the shawl that was wrapped around her. The low-cut bodice and unlaced chemise presented a very full view. Her breasts swelled pale and smooth and inviting. Dammartin remembered too well how they had felt, how they had tasted. He swallowed as his gaze skimmed down over the red-and-black dress that fitted so neatly to her figure. Its skirt was overlapping his left leg.
‘Am I not une femme française?’
‘Your accent…’ He stared at her, understanding now why the sentries had believed her so readily.
She stared right back before the anger seemed to wash from her and she glanced away, a distant look in her eyes. ‘My mother was French,’ she said quietly.
Dammartin felt the shock like a kick in the gut. He stared all the harder, feeling that the foundations of his beliefs of Mallington and the woman before him had just been shaken. He let the tent flap fall back into place.
‘You risked much to come here, mademoiselle. Why?’
She did not move, just stood where she was, so still that he did not think that she would answer. ‘To warn you,’ she said.
He felt his heart beat a little faster.
‘To let you know what manner of man this La Roque is. He is spying on you, Captain. That is hardly conducive with a man whose word as a witness is above reproach.’
He understood now, and he smiled that he could have believed anything else. His voice hardened. ‘You are lying about La Roque in an effort to persuade me of Mallington’s innocence.’
‘My father was innocent, he is innocent. I have no need to lie about La Roque.’
‘You have every need,’ he said curtly.
She sighed. ‘I did not come here for this.’
‘Then what did you come here for, Mademoiselle Mallington?’
Silence.
‘For this?’ He reached for her, hauling her into his arms, pressing her body to his.
‘Or this?’ He slid a hand round to capture one breast, his fingers raking beneath the unlaced chemise.
‘Or perhaps this, mademoiselle?’ His mouth closed harshly over hers, kissing her with the hunger that had gnawed at him all the long day through.
She fought him, but he did not release her, just deepened the kiss, until she softened against him, and yielded the fight. But unlike before, she did not return his kiss.
He ceased his onslaught and rested his forehead against hers. ‘I am sorry, Josephine.’ The tightness of his grip loosened. One hand slid up to cradle her face as he felt the brush of her eyelashes against his. ‘You did not deserve that.’ Her breath was warm against his mouth. He skimmed a caress down the length of her back.
‘I came because La Roque has told Molyneux he may have me…tonight. I…I thought that you would help me.’
He stilled. He drew his face back slightly as if he could see into her eyes through the darkness.
A minute passed, and then another, in which there was only the hush of their breaths, the beat of their hearts.
When he spoke his tone was grim. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I will be back soon.’
‘No.’ She gripped at him. ‘You cannot go to La Roque. He will be enraged. It is too dangerous.’
‘Your concern touches me,’ he said, ‘but it is unwarranted.’ He smiled and dropped a kiss to her cheek. ‘Try to get some sleep. You will find the bed most comfortable.’ He pulled his jacket on and was gone.
Major La Roque pressed the full glass of brandy into Dammartin’s hand. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington seeks to turn us against each other. Such a scheming little vixen for one so young, but then we must remember who sired her. Mallington’s poison runs in her veins. She hates us French just as her father did before her.’
‘Her mother was French.’ Dammartin tasted the brandy and set the brandy glass on the table before him.
‘Mallington’s wife?’ La Roque stiffened before relaxing back into his chair. ‘The girl told you that?’
Dammartin gave a nod.
‘It is probably another lie spun to garner your sympathy.’
Dammartin thought of the Josephine’s fluency in French. ‘I do not think so, Frederic.’
‘Pierre, Pierre…’ La Roque sighed. ‘The girl is dangerous. She watches you kill Mallington and his men. Then you tell her the truth of her beloved precious father, that he is a murdering bastard. There is no honour in the killing of a paroled officer; even Mademoiselle Mallington must know that. So she hates you, and she sets about finding a way to destroy you…with seduction and li
es.’
La Roque’s words made sense. Dammartin knew that Josephine Mallington had every reason to hate him. But there had been nothing of hatred in her kiss, or the response of her body to his.
‘Are you saying that Molyneux did not report to you this evening?’
La Roque set his glass down on the table and looked at Dammartin. ‘I will tell you the truth, Pierre. You are my godson; I care for you, and your mother and your brother very dearly. You know that. When I heard something of this Mademoiselle Mallington, the way she was with you, I began to worry. And so I asked Molyneux to keep an eye on her, to let me know what she was up to. That is all, Pierre, I swear, nothing more.’
‘You might have told me of your concerns rather than have my first lieutenant spy upon me.’
La Roque shook his head. ‘There was nothing of spying in it. I was concerned for you. She is the spawn of that monster and you…’ he sighed with heavy sadness ‘…you are still affected by your father’s death. Had I tried to warn you of her, you would have resented me for it, so I thought I would just keep a gentle eye on things myself.’
‘Frederic…’
‘Perhaps I was wrong to do so, but I am proved right about the girl. With her slyness she has caught you like a worm upon a hook. You want her, even knowing who she is.’
Dammartin said nothing, just downed a mouthful of brandy, focusing on the heat burning its way down into his chest.
‘I am right, am I not? You want Mallington’s daughter in your bed.’
Again Dammartin ignored the assertion spoken with its disgust. ‘What of her portmanteau?’ he said instead. ‘What of the journals?’
‘I told you before. I know nothing of her damn portmanteau, and as for Mallington’s journals, we have only her word that they even exist. Do you think I would have that demon’s journals in my possession and say nothing of it to you? Do you not think that I want to know just as much as you why Mallington did what he did that day? If we had his journals, we might have the answer to the questions that we both have asked for so long.’ La Roque rose from his seat and walked round to stand before Dammartin. ‘I have known you since you were a boy,’ he said. ‘I have watched you grow to a man. You, Marie and Kristoffe are in my heart, along with the love I bore your father. Do you believe the word of a murderer’s daughter over mine, Pierre?’
Dammartin shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Frederic.’
La Roque reached a hand across and touched to Dammartin’s shoulder. ‘I understand how hard this has been for you.’
‘She said that you would give her to Molyneux.’
‘The girl is playing you, Pierre. She is here because you asked me to take her. Molyneux has nothing to do with it.’
Dammartin thought of the way that Josephine had clung to him, her relief at finding him spontaneous and overflowing. He thought of her standing so quietly before him. I thought that you would help me, she had said, and he had seen the unspoken fear in her eyes. Such an adept liar, such persuasive acting. Logic and all that Dammartin had believed in told him that La Roque was right, yet a stain of unease marred his soul.
‘I envy her her loyalty to her father. Had I but an ounce of it, I would not be in this damnable mess.’
‘Pierre.’ La Roque’s hand gripped at Dammartin’s shoulder. ‘I know how hard you have fought against this…this appetite she has whetted within you. But maybe you are using the wrong tactics; maybe it would be better if you just took her and be done with it. Use her. Ride her like the whore that she is. Eat until you are sated, and perhaps then the hunger shall be no more.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Dammartin. He knew that no matter what La Roque said, no matter whether Josephine Mallington had lied or not, once he was alone with her, all of it was inconsequential. He was like some animal, wanting her, needing her so much that he could no longer think straight…so much that he thought not of his father or of his duty or even of honour, but only of Josephine Mallington. He had thought that sending her to La Roque would be an end to it, but it had only been an accelerant. Now she was in his tent, and before the night was out she would be in his bed.
Chapter Twelve
Josie heard the footsteps and saw the movement of the tent flap. Her heart began to pound as she wondered if it really were Dammartin returning. If something had happened to him, if it were Molyneux that had come in his stead… Her hands clenched by her sides. She rose swiftly to her feet, turning from the little table to face the tent flap, waiting, poised, ready.
‘Captain Dammartin…’ she breathed her relief ‘…it is you. I thought…’ She gave a little smile and let the words fall unsaid.
‘You thought what, mademoiselle?’ he asked, and she could see that his eyes were dangerously dark and that something had changed since he had left. And she knew then that La Roque had destroyed any belief that Dammartin might have had in her.
The smile flitted from her face. ‘It does not matter,’ she said, and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her.
He lit the lantern and closed all of its shutters save for one. ‘La Roque denies your accusations. He says that you are trying to cause trouble between us.’
‘Of course he does,’ she exclaimed. ‘You did not think he would admit the truth, did you? Molyneux was there. I know what I heard.’
‘Molyneux was there, but it is not how you think.’ She saw the shadow of something flicker in his eyes.
‘I have told you the truth, Captain Dammartin. It is Major La Roque who is lying.’
‘It is your word, mademoiselle, against his. You are the daughter of the man who murdered my father. La Roque is a hero to all of France. He is a senior officer in the Emperor’s army, a friend to my family; he is my godfather. Were you in my position, who would you believe?’
‘La Roque is your godfather?’ she said, and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Then I never had a chance of your belief.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you sending me back to him?’
His eyes held hers. ‘No.’
The silence hissed between them.
‘And what of Molyneux?’
‘Molyneux is of no consequence.’
‘You would keep me here, and yet you believe not a single word that I have said, not of La Roque or of Molyneux or my father. Why?’ In that single questioning word there was disappointment and dread…and anticipation. She fixed her eyes on him, hoping that she was wrong.
‘We both know why, Josephine,’ he said, and began to unfasten his jacket.
She swallowed hard, feeling the sudden skitter of her heart. She shook her head as if to deny it, but she recognised too well the smoulder in his eyes and the familiar heat that ignited in response low in her belly.
‘No,’ she said, and shook her head again. ‘I will not let you kiss me.’
He walked the few steps towards her, not stopping until the skirt of her dress was brushing the toes of his riding boots.
She felt his warmth across the small distance that separated them, and smelled the scent of him.
He raised a hand and traced a finger lightly against her cheek.
Josie bit at her lower lip and resisted the sensation. ‘Would you force me against my will?’
‘No.’ His voice was as gentle as his caress.
‘Do not kiss me,’ she pleaded, not trusting herself to resist him if he did. ‘Please do not.’
The dim flickering light shadowed his face, and softened his eyes. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then he turned away and moved to sit down in the same chair in which Josie had been seated upon his arrival. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair.
‘What am I then to do with you, Josephine Mallington?’
She sat down in the other chair, to his left, resting her hands gently upon the table’s smooth wooden surface.
There was only the quietness of the night.
‘I wish there was some way I could make you believe the truth,’ she said quietly.
‘We will never agree on what is the truth.’
His hand slid over hers, even though he did not look at her, but faced straight ahead, watching the tiny light of the lantern.
They sat there, not moving, not speaking, with only the warmth of his hand resting on hers.
‘I will ask you just one question, and then no more. Were your father’s journals within your portmanteau?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I can never know what was in your father’s mind in Oporto. The one chance that I had is lost.’
Josie knew then a way that she could convince Dammartin of the truth. The cost was high, traitorous even; once she would have died rather than pay it, but things had changed since then, much more than she ever could have known.
He was still looking in front of him, staring at the canvas, and it seemed that there was a despair about him. Her eyes traced the outline of the scar running down his cheek, the harsh lean planes of his face, the sweep of the dark lashes, the straightness of his nose, the hardness of his lips. A man that seemed invincible, and yet he hurt as she did. He had lost a father, like her.
‘It is not lost,’ she said softly. And her hand rotated beneath his so that their palms touched together and their fingers entwined. ‘There is something I have not told you, Captain Dammartin.’
Slowly he turned his face to her.
‘My father’s journal for Oporto was not amongst the others in my portmanteau.’
She saw the hope leap in his eyes.
‘It was the night that we walked together by the river. I took it out to read and did not replace it.’
His gaze clung to hers like a man drowning clings to life. ‘You have this journal?’
‘Yes. It is the reason La Roque was sending Molyneux to me tonight. He wanted the journal.’
‘Josephine,’ he whispered, ‘do not lie to me of this above all things.’
‘It is the truth. I have read my father’s words from Oporto and there is nothing of murder in them. He writes of admiration and respect for your father, of their issuing invitations to visit each other’s homes after the war. His are not the words of a man who would kill that same officer when he was paroled.’
The Captain's Forbidden Miss Page 19
