The light fled from Dammartin’s face. He stilled, just stood there for a moment and stared at her.
She had said the words to hurt him just as he had hurt her, and she could see in his eyes that she had done just that. But the feeling was not one of victory; it did not make her feel better; her own hurt was not lessened by the cruel retaliation. She opened her mouth to tell him that she was sorry, that she had not meant it, but he turned and was gone. The door closed behind him and his footsteps echoed along the passageway towards the stairs, leaving Josie more alone than ever.
Dammartin departed La Roque’s office in a hurry, the small leather document wallet tucked securely within his jacket. He already knew which men he would select for the mission—those that were trustworthy, and fast, whose aim was true and whose courage was great…and Molyneux, of course, since Dammartin could not trust that Josie would be safe with the Lieutenant around.
He spoke to Lamont first, making sure that his sergeant understood why he was being left behind. ‘There is no one that I trust more to guard her. Do this for me, my friend, and forgive me that I do not take you with me.’
Lamont nodded.
‘Have a care, Pierre. The road to Valladolid is a dangerous one for any Frenchman, and I grow too long in the tooth to be taking orders from a new puppy of a captain.’
Dammartin smiled and clapped his friend on the arm. ‘You will not be rid of me so easily, Claude. Keep the brandy ready for my return.’
They laughed, but both of them understood the risk involved in travelling through Spain with such a small escort.
‘Ready the men. There is something I must do before I leave.’ Dammartin made his way back up to his room.
Chapter Fourteen
Josie was sitting in a chair by the window, bathed in sunlight and stitching a tear in one of Pierre’s shirts when he arrived.
He came in, leaving the door open behind him and picked up his portmanteau. ‘I am for Valladolid with an urgent message for General Foy. I have come to take my leave of you.’
Her heart plummeted at his words. The sewing was set hastily aside as she jumped to her feet. ‘You are leaving now?’
He gave a nod. ‘We are under orders to pass a letter to Foy before he departs for Paris.’
He could not go now, she thought, not when there was so much that she needed to say to him. She felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath her feet. Her fingers touched to her forehead. ‘How many men travel with you? Are there not bandits on the road?’
‘Go to Lamont if there are any problems. Rosa shall keep you company during the days, and if you are afraid at night, I am sure that she would stay. All being well, I should be back some time next week.’
He was going and she was not fool enough to dismiss the danger of his journey.
‘Molyneux, he comes with me, so you need not worry over him, but Ciudad Rodrigo is filled with men. Keep the door locked. Do not venture out alone.’ He produced a purse from his pocket and threw it on to the bed. ‘There should be enough money in there to buy yourself food, clothes, whatever you need.’
She looked at the purse, feeling her heart beating very fast, and then up at Dammartin. ‘You are leaving no guard; you are giving me money and freedom. Are you not afraid that I will escape?’
‘I can no longer hold you against your will, Josie. If you wish to leave me, I will not stop you.’
Their gazes met and held.
The sunlight glinted against the darkness of his hair and lightened his eyes to a clear warm amber.
She did not understand what this meant. She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to fight for her, to hold her in his arms and kiss her and love her as he had done so often. But everything had changed. Cruel words spoken in haste lay between them; cruel words and a lack of faith.
They looked at each other across the little room for a moment longer, and as he turned to go, she knew that she could not let him leave like this.
‘Pierre.’
He stopped, looked back at her.
‘The words that I spoke to you this morning, I…I did not mean—’
The shuffle of booted feet sounded outside the door, a man clearing his throat before he knocked.
Josie bit at her lip, all explanations and apologies left unspoken.
He gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Au revoir, Josie.’
And she wanted to tell him, wanted to shout the truth out loud to him, but the door swung wide and Lamont was standing there, his little black eyes watching them.
‘Captain,’ he murmured. ‘The Major wishes to see you before you leave.’
Dammartin nodded. ‘I am coming, Claude.’
One last look and then he turned and walked away, closing the door behind him as he went, leaving only the sound of brisk booted footsteps that receded into nothing.
Josie stood by the window and watched Pierre ride out with only twenty-five of his dragoons, knowing that there was a very real risk that he would not come back.
After he had gone she sat in the chair and stared out of the window, thinking and thinking some more, as the sun moved across the sky.
Only twenty-five men to secure his safety when Foy had taken twenty times that number. And she thought what he might face—Spanish armies, disgruntled locals, murderous bandits, all of whom had a reason to hate Bonaparte’s men. The horrible stories of what they did to the French soldiers that they captured made her shudder. If Pierre were to suffer, if he were to die… She closed her eyes to the thought, unable to bear it. Such cruel imaginings to torture herself with, not knowing for days whether he was safe, whether he still lived.
She thought of their parting: awkward, stilted, with so many barriers between them. And she had not had the chance to tell him that she regretted her harsh words, that they were spoken only out of hurt and anger, that she had known that they were not true. He had gone carrying those same words with him, not knowing the truth that she loved him.
The sky stretched unending in a clear, pale blue silk, and as she stared at it, she knew that was her biggest regret of all. She loved him, and she had not told him so. She loved him, and he might die without knowing it.
He did not believe her, she reminded herself, but what was that in comparison to losing him? Whether he believed her or not now seemed of little consequence. Was it so bad that Pierre should have some measure of loyalty to his godfather? He had wanted to speak of it this evening, but Josie and his orders had ruined that. He was gone, and her heart had gone with him.
Dammartin scanned the surrounding rocks while his men rested and the horses took their fill from the stream. He swigged from his canteen, wetting his parched throat and leaned back against the boulder behind him.
‘Anything?’ he shouted across at the trooper who had been posted as lookout.
His man shook his head. ‘Nothing, Captain.’
Molyneux approached, his face sheepish. ‘Captain, I wonder if I might speak with you.’
Dammartin gave a slight nod.
‘I wished to apologise for what has happened between us. One evening when I was visiting the women’s tent, Major La Roque called me in and explained that he was concerned for you because of Mademoiselle Mallington. He is a most important man, and your godfather, and so when he asked me to keep him informed of matters concerning Mademoiselle Mallington, I could not refuse him. I was not permitted to tell you, sir, and for that I am sorry.’
‘I understand the position you were put in, Lieutenant.’ Dammartin stoppered his canteen and placed the strap across his body, fixing the container back into place by his hip.
Molyneux visibly relaxed.
‘What did the Major offer you in return for your…help?’ Dammartin’s eyes met Molyneux’s before the Lieutenant glanced away.
Molyneux cleared his throat and would not meet his gaze.
‘Come, come, Molyneux, do not be shy. Tell me,’ Dammartin said quietly, with the barest suggestion of a threat about the words.
�
�He offered me the girl.’ Molyneux glanced fearfully up at his captain.
Dammartin frowned. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington?’
Molyneux nodded. ‘I would not have hurt her.’
‘Just taken her against her will,’ said Dammartin dryly. So Josie had not misunderstood. She had known exactly what was going on, and if she had been right about that… ‘And the journal?’
Shock flitted across Molyneux’s face. ‘You were not supposed to know about the journal. The Major said—’ He stopped himself in time.
‘What did the Major say, Lieutenant Molyneux?’ Dammartin’s eyes narrowed.
But Molyneux just shook his head.
A hollow feeling of dread rose in Dammartin. ‘La Roque was sending you to retrieve the journal from Mademoiselle Mallington by means of rape.’
‘It would not have been like that. She trusted me. She would have given it over to me. I would have been gentle with her, for all that La Roque said I might do.’
Dammartin’s lip curled, he glanced away, and gave a subtle shake of his head, and as he looked back, he stepped forwards and landed his fist hard against Molyneux’s jaw. The force of the blow sent Molyneux sprawling.
‘Stand up, Lieutenant.’
Molyneux got to his feet, dabbing a hand gingerly to the blood that trickled from his lip. He did not cower, just faced Dammartin squarely. ‘I suppose that I deserve that.’
‘When Mademoiselle Mallington came to me, what then?’ demanded Dammartin, thinking fast.
‘The Major said you would soon tire of her, and then…’
‘You would have her.’
Molyneux nodded. ‘He wants the journal.’
Dammartin’s face hardened. ‘If he wants it so damn badly, he is not going to sit and wait for us to come back from Valladolid, is he? He thinks Josie has it, and he will go to her to get it.’
‘He would not—’ Molyneux stopped, and his gaze met Dammartin’s.
‘I think perhaps we both have underestimated my godfather, Molyneux.’
‘But she just needs to give him the journal and she will be safe.’
‘She cannot give him the journal,’ Dammartin said in a cynical voice, ‘when it is in my possession, can she? I am going back to Ciudad Rodrigo. You must deliver the letter to Foy.’
Molyneux stared in disbelief before he nodded.
Dammartin put his hand into his pocket to retrieve the document wallet with its letter just as the lookout shouted…and the shots began to fire.
Josie was still sitting in the chair by the window when the knock sounded at the door. Rosa, the thought flashed in her mind and she went to let the Spanish woman in, pausing by the door before she opened it.
‘Rosa, is that you?’
There was a silence before the reply sounded. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington.’
Josie recognised the voice and her scalp prickled with the knowledge of who stood there. ‘Major La Roque,’ she said through the wood of the door.
‘Open the door, mademoiselle.’
She remembered that night crouched outside his tent, and of the words she had heard. She made no move, just stood there quiet and waiting.
The door handle rattled beneath La Roque’s hand, making her jump back.
‘I bring bad news of Captain Dammartin.’
She felt the sudden dip in her stomach at his words. It had to be a trick. La Roque would not come himself to tell her of anything. She glared at the handle, part of her willing him to go away, the other small part scared that he was telling the truth. Lamont would know, she thought, he would come to tell her of any news.
There was silence and as the minutes ticked by she wondered if La Roque was still out there. Maybe he had gone; maybe she was safe.
There was a wrenching sound, the splitting of wood; the door vibrated beneath its force. Josie backed away, her eyes scanning the room for a weapon, but it was too late. The door swung quietly open and La Roque walked slowly in. In his hand was the long knife with which he had levered the door to burst its lock.
He pushed the door behind him, closing it as best he could against the splintered frame. ‘There is much we have to discuss, mademoiselle, and it so much easier to speak face to face, do you not agree?’
She could feel her throat grip tight to her breath, feel her mouth dry in an instant. Her eyes looked to the knife in his hand.
‘Do not let this worry you, at least not yet.’ He slipped the knife inside his jacket. ‘And you need not fear that the Spanish doxy shall interrupt us; I have ensured that she will be kept busy for some time.’ He smiled, but his eyes were like ice.
She wetted her lips nervously. ‘What do you want?’
He laughed. ‘I like a woman that gets straight down to business.’
She backed away to stand by the window, her eyes flicking to the partly open door.
La Roque positioned himself between Josie and the door, blocking her in, covering the exit. ‘I want Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s journal for Oporto.’
‘I do not have it,’ she said.
La Roque raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, but I know that you do, mademoiselle.’ He looked at her with those pale eyes of his.
‘You are mistaken, sir.’ She forced herself to sound calm.
‘Then where is it?’
She bit at her lip, feeling the fast trip of her heart within her chest, the thrum of her pulse in her throat, knowing that she could not tell him.
‘It has to be with you as it was not with the others at the bottom of your portmanteau,’ he said.
Her mind was whirring, frantically seeking a way to escape him.
‘You are not surprised, I see, mademoiselle, by my knowledge of the journals. I wonder to whom you might have been listening.’
And for one awful moment she thought that he knew of her eavesdropping…but that was not what La Roque meant.
‘Did Molyneux tell you? He cannot think any higher than what hangs between his legs.’
She balked at his vulgarity.
‘I want that journal, Mademoiselle Mallington.’ His hand slipped within his jacket, and when it came out again, it was holding the knife. ‘And I will do whatever it takes to have it from you.’
Her eyes widened. She backed away until her legs were pressing hard against the chair, her gaze frantically seeking a way she might reach the door; but La Roque stood between her and that route of escape.
‘By the time that I have finished with you, mademoiselle, you will be begging me to take the journal from you.’ He smiled and moved towards her.
One look at his face told her he was in deadly earnest, and yet still she could not tell him the truth, for she feared what he would do if he knew that Pierre had hidden the journal from him. ‘I burnt the journal, Major La Roque, for fear that it would fall into French hands like the others.’
‘A clever attempt, mademoiselle,’ La Roque sneered, ‘but I do not think that you would destroy the only evidence of what happened in Oporto that day.’
The silence hissed between them as the penny dropped in her mind. Her eyes met his. ‘You know,’ she said as if she could not quite believe it. If La Roque knew her father to be guilty, then why would she not destroy the evidence that could prove it was so. But La Roque’s words revealed that he knew otherwise. She stared at him aghast as she understood the implication of his words. ‘You know that my father was innocent. That is why you want the journal,’ she said slowly, ‘not to protect Pierre, but to hide the truth.’ The sickness welled in her stomach at the realisation that followed, for there could be only one reason why La Roque wished to hide the truth.
Something of it must have shown in her face, for La Roque stepped closer. ‘I see that you have guessed my little secret.’
‘What secret is that, sir?’ She tried to feign ignorance.
‘Come now, mademoiselle, it is written all over your face.’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Oh, but I think that you do,’ he said, as his hand
closed around her wrist. ‘An English woman alone amidst an entire French garrison and not just any English woman—the daughter of one of the most hated men in all of France. It is hardly surprising that some loyal soldier shall take his revenge.’
She tried to pull away from him, but he squeezed his fingers and held her tighter. ‘Pierre shall know what you have done.’
‘No, Mademoiselle Mallington, he will never know.’ He looked her directly in the eye. ‘You see, I was not lying when I said that I brought bad news of Captain Dammartin.’
The fear was churning in her gut, but none of it was for herself. Her lips felt cold and stiff, making it hard to force the words out through them. ‘What do you mean? What has happened to Pierre?’
‘He will not be coming back,’ he said quietly.
‘How can you know that?’
La Roque just looked at her with his cold, dead eyes, and she knew.
Her legs began to shake with the dread of it. The breath was uneven within her throat, and her fists clenched. All of the pieces fell into place. ‘It was you that ordered Pierre to ride to Valladolid with the letter for General Foy.’
‘The letter that he carries is unimportant; it was merely an excuse to get him away from Ciudad Rodrigo.’
The chill was spreading throughout her body, and the pulse was hammering in her head. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Why do you think, mademoiselle? Pierre and his men will be attacked by guerrillas. The letter will be stolen, and no French survivors left, no loose ends.’
‘Oh, dear Lord!’ She shook her head as if she could not believe what he was saying. ‘Why? He is your godson, for pity’s sake!’ she cried.
She saw the pain crease his face. ‘Do you think it does not kill a part of me to have to do this? It is like ripping out my own heart.’
‘Then do not do it. Please!’
He shook his head. ‘I must.’ His mouth contorted and she could see the hostility blazing in his eyes. ‘The fault is all yours, mademoiselle.’
She stared at him in horror.
‘Everything was going so well until you came along. Pierre and his brother and his mother looked up to me. I took the role that had been Jean’s: hero, father, protector. All of France respected me. And all because Jean was dead by the hand of the evil Lieutenant Colonel Mallington. Do you know how much Pierre hated your father? Do you know that in all of the months since Jean’s death, Pierre thought only to look into your father’s eyes as he killed him?’
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