Her question was worse than he could have anticipated. ‘How exactly did he die?’
Something of the old bitterness welled up as it ever did when he thought of what Mallington was supposed to have done. ‘Are you sure that you wish to hear this?’
‘I think that I must hear it.’
‘Very well.’ He took a breath and told her. ‘My father and Major La Roque were captured by Lieutenant Colonel Mallington at Oporto. They were his prisoners before being released with their parole. Not a mile after they left his camp he came after them, alone. And when he found them he came in close, levelled a musket and fired. The bullet killed my father instantly. Mallington reloaded and shot again. La Roque had no choice but to ride for his life. Mallington’s bullet skimmed his arm. He was still bleeding when he reached the French lines; he was lucky to survive. So now you know the full extent of it.’
He had expected shock, denial, even distress from Josie, but not the wide-eyed revelation that he saw there.
She turned to him, gripped at his arm. ‘The man that La Roque saw could not have been my father.’
‘Josie,’ he said quietly, ‘the journal does not touch upon what happened after La Roque and my father left.’
‘No, you do not understand,’ she said urgently, and he could sense an underlying fervour within her. ‘My father was injured at Vimiero, a sword blade across the fingers. He healed well enough to grip the hilt of a sword, but he could not pull back the hammer of a flintlock or release the trigger to fire a bullet. You see, if Major Dammartin was shot, it could not have been by my father’s hand; that would have been a physical impossibility.’
An image flashed in his head of the little room in the monastery at Telemos, of the dead bodies of men with their rifles by their sides, of the one woman that faced them still, her rifle aimed at his her heart. He thought of the grey-haired old man and the sword that had fallen from his hand. What use was a sword against a barrage of bullets? Even his daughter had used a rifle, but Mallington himself had not.
And it all began to make sense. ‘Then La Roque was mistaken in thinking that the officer was Mallington.’
‘Perhaps the man had a look of my father about him.’
‘A similar uniform, one of his officers, maybe.’
‘No.’ Josie shook her head. ‘Whoever the villain was, he was not a rifleman. You said he used a musket. The Fifth of the 60th Foot are a rifle battalion. They are issued with rifles, not muskets. And as rifles are so much more accurate over distance, the killer would not have had to approach your father so closely had he used one.’
Dammartin nodded, knowing that everything she said made sense. There was a silence in which he let the thoughts settle. He did not know whether to be sad or glad. He did not know for sure whether she had proved to him at last Mallington’s innocence. But the cold, heavy sensation sat upon him that he had persecuted an innocent man and all because La Roque had made a mistake.
‘I am never going to know the true identity of the man who murdered my father, am I?’
She slid her hand around his waist, and dropped a small kiss to the side of his arm closest to her face.
They sat in silence, together, and watched as day drew back the dark curtain of night.
Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed. There were stirrings from the tents.
He drained the last of the coffee. ‘Come, we should make ready.’
They got to their feet.
‘Last night…’ she said.
He touched a gentle finger to her lips to stay her words and, taking her hand in his, they walked back to the tent.
In the pale morning light she could see the crumple of his bed, that she had so recently vacated, and across from it the smooth surface of the table, empty save for the burned-out lantern.
‘The journal…’ She glanced round at him, feeling the sudden flurry of her heart. ‘Pierre!’
‘It is safe.’
‘Where?’
‘It is better that the journal stays with me, Josie.’
Her heart skipped a beat. ‘You said that you would not take it from me; you promised.’
He took hold of her hand again and pulled her gently to him. ‘I said that I would not tell Major La Roque.’
Her stomach seemed to drop to the soles of her feet. ‘It is not yours to keep.’ She stared at him. ‘I let you read it in good faith.’
‘Josie.’ His thumb soothed a caress against her palm. ‘I promise it is safe.’
‘I trusted you,’ she said, and the ground upon which she had built that trust seemed to tilt.
She saw the slight flinch at her words, there and then gone so quickly. His eyes were dark and unreadable as they met hers.
‘You are a British prisoner in a French camp. Already your portmanteau has been stolen. I will ensure both your and the journal’s safety until you can be returned to Lisbon.’ She saw the flicker of his muscles as he clenched his jaw. ‘It is the least I can do for your father.’
Their eyes held.
And in her heart was gladness that at last Dammartin believed in her father’s innocence, and a terrible sadness, an ache almost. Papa was dead and Jean Dammartin’s murderer would never be found…and soon Josie would be back with the British.
She nodded a small acknowledgement and looked away.
Nothing could change what had happened.
The war and the ghosts of their fathers stood between them.
Chapter Thirteen
The day’s march was long, and Dammartin kept Josie by his side for every hour of it. There was no let up in the pace as Foy pushed the men relentlessly on, knowing that they were so close to their destination. Dammartin felt fatigue heavy in his muscles, and the gnaw of hunger in his belly. He glanced again at Josie, knowing that if he felt this bad, then she must be feeling it a hundred times worse. The grey blanket enveloped her as she sat looking straight ahead. He studied her profile.
The shadows beneath her eyes were dark against the pallor of her skin. Although she sat her saddle well, he could see the slight droop in her shoulders, and the weariness about her.
It was ten days since Telemos, ten days since he had watched Mallington die and taken Josie as his prisoner. He remembered her standing there, in that blood-splattered room in the monastery with the rifle in her hand, standing before her father, guarding Mallington against him and his men. One woman against them all. Defiant. Fearless. It was a sight he would never forget. So small, so slender, and yet so strong. He had both hated her and respected her. Only ten days later and it was not hate that he felt for the woman riding by his side.
He remembered the feel of her body pressed against his, her softness, her strength, the beat of her heart beneath his cheek. And the thought of her warmed him against the damp cold of the day, and prevented the chill wind’s cut.
Above the sky stretched to an unending white-grey, but Dammartin did not notice. Ahead lay Ciudad Rodrigo.
A massive medieval wall enclosed the city. They marched through the fortified gateway, the horses’ hooves clopping loud against the cobblestones that lined the streets. Josie looked up through the twilight to see an ancient castle nestling on the hill just above the town. She was so tired that she was almost slumped in Fleur’s saddle, her fingers too numb to know if the reins were still within them. The little mare followed Dante and Dammartin.
She was aware of lights and of buildings, the hum of voices and soldiers dressed in Bonaparte’s blue everywhere. The 8th did not stop until they reached the stables. Josie just sat there, knowing that this was the end of the journey. General Foy would go on to Paris, but of Dammartin’s fate and her own, she did not know.
‘Josie.’
She heard his voice, soft with concern, felt his hands helping her down. And then he took his baggage and placed a supportive arm around her waist, not caring that his men saw. Together they walked out of the stables to face what awaited them in Ciudad Rodrigo.
The room in which Dammartin had been
quartered was small but clean and tidy. He could only be thankful that he and Josie had the room to themselves and did not have to share. With five thousand Frenchmen in the town, he knew that he was lucky indeed.
His portmanteau lay abandoned on the floor. Josie sat perched at the edge of the bed.
‘What will happen now?’ She was glad that her voice sounded calm.
‘General Foy will go on with a smaller fresh escort, to Salamanca and Valladolid. We rest here and await our orders to return to Santarém along with Ciudad Rodrigo’s garrison and that of Almeida.’
‘And what of me?’
‘You stay with me until I can return you to Wellington at Lisbon.’
She breathed her relief.
He dropped a kiss to the top of her head. ‘Get some sleep, Josie. I must speak with Major La Roque, but I will be back soon. Lock the door behind me and keep it locked. There are too many Frenchmen about this night in search of a beautiful woman.’ He pressed his lips to hers in a hard passionate kiss that was over too quickly. ‘And I intend to keep you all to myself.’
‘Come, come, Pierre, this is not like you. You have let the woman get under your skin, and now she is tormenting you with her lies.’ Major La Roque dismissed his servant and refilled both his and Dammartin’s glasses of wine before resuming his attack on the pile of chicken that lay on his plate.
Dammartin rubbed unthinkingly at the edge of his jaw. ‘But think about it; if Mallington’s hand injury meant that he could not fire a musket—’
‘Are you doubting my word?’ La Roque stopped eating.
‘Of course I am not. But I am suggesting that you might have been mistaken in the identity of the man that fired the shot. The shooter may have looked like Mallington—’
‘The shooter damn well was Mallington. He was twenty yards away. I saw the bastard clearly with my own two eyes. Were it anyone else making such an accusation, I would place my sword at their throat.’
Dammartin raked a hand through his hair, his fingers leaving a ruffle of dark fingers in their wake. ‘Frederic—’
‘You wound me, Pierre, deeply.’ La Roque pushed his plate away.
‘Forgive me. It was never my intention.’
‘I dread to think what your mother would say.’
Dammartin sighed. ‘I meant no insult. It is not you that I doubt, but who you think that you saw pulling that trigger. I do not believe that it was Mallington.’
‘What can have brought about such a madness in your mind?’ La Roque’s face paled. His eyes glittered as he stared at Dammartin, intent on his godson’s answer.
Dammartin thought of Mallington’s journal; he thought, too, of his promise to Josie. ‘There is nothing in particular. I have been questioning Mademoiselle Mallington, and her answers have made me think.’
‘What has the little bitch been saying?’
‘She spoke in defence of her father’s character.’
La Roque flushed. ‘She is a liar, Pierre, a conniving, manipulative little liar, and the sooner you see it the better. You would do well to remember who she is, and who I am too.’
Dammartin looked into La Roque’s now-ruddy face as his godfather made an effort to call back the anger of his words.
‘I am sorry, Pierre, but I cannot forget what I saw Mallington do to your father, and I cannot forget that I was forced to ride away and leave him there dead. My feelings run high on the matter; they always will. When I look at Mademoiselle Mallington and see how she has turned your mind from the truth, I am enraged and, at the same time, beyond despair.’ La Roque clenched his teeth and blinked away the moisture from his eyes.
‘Frederic, Frederic…’ Dammartin rose and pouring a large glass of brandy passed it to La Roque.
La Roque sniffed. ‘I thought if you bedded her it would destroy her influence over you.’ He took a generous swig of brandy.
‘I am not influenced by Mademoiselle Mallington.’
‘But I am afraid, Pierre, that you are, and it breaks my heart to see what Mallington’s daughter has done to you.’
Dammartin took his farewells of his godfather and made his way back to Josie. He heard the echo of La Roque’s words, and of his own.
La Roque was convinced that Mallington had fired the bullet that killed Jean Dammartin, and he had been there, witnessed the whole thing. Did what Mallington had written in his journal really change that? Could Dammartin even trust what Josie had said of her father’s inability to fire a gun?
He had told La Roque that he was not influenced by Josie, when in truth it was she that filled his mind, his every walking hour. He craved her. He needed her. She influenced him beyond measure, whether he willed it or not. And the realisation of the extent of her control over him made Dammartin uneasy. Far from clarifying matters this night, he seemed only to have made things worse.
Josie was lying half dozing when she finally heard the tap at the door. She slipped from beneath the covers of the bed, shivering as the chill of the night touched her body through the thin linen of her shift.
‘Pierre?’ Only when she heard his reply did she turn the key within the lock to let him enter.
He smelled of damp night air and brandy, and the wool of his sleeve was cold beneath her fingers. The night was clear and moonlight flooded through the small window to bathe him in its strange silver light and its magic.
Outside the cathedral clock sounded eleven chimes.
She knew immediately that his meeting with La Roque had not gone well. His expression seemed strained, his face harshly handsome, his scar sinister.
‘You are cold,’ she said, brushing her fingers against his, the words so trivial beside everything that she really wanted to say.
‘And tired.’ He rubbed at the stubble of his chin. ‘We should sleep.’
She retreated to the bed, snuggling beneath the covers over at the side closest to the window, lying there, watching him while he stripped off his clothing.
The contrast of moonlight and shadows played upon his body, revealing the taut rippled muscles of his abdomen, his chest, his shoulders and arms. She felt his weight tip the bed as he sat down upon its edge to ease off his boots and his stockings. His hands moved to free the fall on his breeches and he rose to his feet once more. Josie looked away, feeling her heart beating too fast, and the sudden flash of excitement within her belly. Her mouth was dry; she wetted her lips. She heard the soft thud of his breeches hitting the floor and then the mattress tilted once more as he climbed in beside her. She lay still, anticipating his touch, the feel of his hands upon her. But Dammartin made no move.
He lay there on his back, saying nothing, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling, waves of tension emanating from him.
Apprehension gripped at her and she knew that something was wrong.
The silence strained between them, hissing and loud, until she could bear it no more.
‘How was your meeting with Major La Roque?’
She heard him swallow. ‘There is nothing to speak of,’ he said in a quiet voice devoid of emotion. ‘The hour is late, go to sleep.’
‘What is wrong, Pierre?’ Dread tightened her stomach to a small, hard ball. She wondered what La Roque had said to make him this way.
‘There is nothing wrong.’ He sighed and turned away from her, to lie on his side.
She felt the sting of his rejection, and shivered. All of the warmth, of what had bound them together, had gone, and she did not understand why. Pride would not let her ask him again. She rolled to her side, close to the edge of the bed, and gazed out of the window.
At Telemos the moon had been a slim crescent, now it loomed huge and full outside, too big to be real, too bright for the night. So much had happened in those days in between. Her father was dead, his good name despoiled, and Josie’s innocence lost. She had hated Pierre Dammartin, hated him more than she had thought it possible to hate, but somehow in their journey hate had turned to love. She could not say where, or how or even why. She should hate him still,
but her heart was a traitor to all logic. And fool that she was, she had believed that he felt something of it, too, this ridiculous, accursed, forbidden love. But now…now she was no longer sure.
The ice crept from her feet up through her legs, from the tips of her fingers up through her arms. Josie did not shiver; rather she embraced the chill, praying it would soon reach her heart and numb the ache within.
Dammartin fixed his eyes upon the door, the wall, the crooked picture that hung upon it, anything in a bid to resist the temptation to turn to the woman who lay behind him. He could hear the soft sound of her breathing, feel her small movements as she curled on her side. Her faint scent of lavender water touched his nose. He tried to stay strong, to resist, determined that he, Pierre Dammartin, would not be so easily under the influence of any woman, but he could feel the insistent prick of guilt at the callous words he had uttered. And his mind was filled with her: whether she was hurting, whether she was cursing him, the sight of her standing by the door in her shift with the flimsy material revealing the protrusion of her nipples and contours of her hips. His skin tingled at the memory of that brief brush of her fingers.
Dammartin could resist no more. He rolled onto his back. ‘Josie.’
She ignored him, lying there so still as if she were asleep.
He moved to her, curving his body around hers, warming her chill with his heat. His arm curled around her, anchoring her in, his hand finding hers and closing over it.
‘Forgive me, Josie,’ he said softly against her ear. He felt her hand move within his. ‘I did not mean to hurt you.’
She turned in his arms, rolling round to look up into his face.
‘I should not have spoken to you as I did.’
‘You are tired,’ she said, making excuses for him.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I am a fool…’ he stroked her hair, gliding his hand down to gently cradle her face ‘…a thousand times over.’ He lowered his face, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘There is something between us, Josie, you know that, do you not?’ His lips lightly traced the line of her nose to place a kiss upon its tip. ‘I have tried so hard to fight it.’ His mouth reached hers and lingered so close above, his breath brushing warm against her lips. ‘Harder than you can imagine.’ Their lips entwined, her mouth responding to his with such sweet tenderness that he almost could not break the kiss to pull back and look deeply into her eyes. ‘I want to kiss you and never stop. I want to love you for an eternity. I need you, Josie Mallington. I need you like I have never needed anyone.’ His thumb caressed her cheek, slowly, sensually, conveying with that small movement what his words could not. ‘But if you do not want this…if—’
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