by Jane Feather
Tamsyn grimaced. “I spent two and a half days tethered in his cabin, Colonel. I had ample opportunity to observe his routine.”
“Do you know where the jakes are situated?”
She nodded. “I was permitted to, use them-twice a day,” she added with a hiss of fury, remembering the discomfort and humiliation of her imprisonment.
Julian offered no response. If one played in a dirty world, one risked falling into the slime, and he didn't think La Violette was asking for sympathy. “So where are they?”
“The far side of the encampment, dug about ten feet within the picket line, but set apart from the main camp.”
“Lead on, Violette.” His expression was wry. Of all the crazy exercises he'd been involved in, this one took the prize. But this Spanish-Cornish bandit clearly had a fertile imagination when it came to devising the downfall of her enemies. Cornichet's plight would be almost as ludicrous as his own that morning, caught while taking his pleasure between the smooth thighs of a passionate plunderer.
Gabriel was grinning, much amused by Tamsyn's plot. But he too had suffered at the hands of Cornichet and his men.
They crept around the picket line. A twig snapped beneath Julian's boot, and the sound seemed to echo in the silence. Immediately Tamsyn cupped her mouth with her hands, and the haunting call of a nightjar filled the wood. Gabriel nodded his approval and Julian cursed his clumsiness.
The smell of smoke and smoldering embers still lingered in the air, and the wood was very quiet, its wildlife fled from men and fire. The trees were still leafless, and the crescent moon shone through the branches with an alarming brightness, but Gabriel and Tamsyn hugged the silvered trunks of trees, slithered on their bellies through bushes, and Julian followed them as they crawled and darted from dark patch to dark patch until they'd circled the outpost, and the faint odor of sewage wafted from beyond the picket line where the latrine trenches were dug.
“The officers' latrine is at the far end, closest to the camp,” Tamsyn whispered, her voice a 'mere breath on the air. “Their section has a canvas cover-as if what they do is any different from the common soldier,” she added with derision.
“I should imagine you were glad enough of the privacy,” Julian observed dryly, and was rewarded by a quick, rueful grin of acknowledgment. She was an infuriatingly opinionated girl, he reflected, but at least she knew when to yield an issue.
A staccato hail rang out from the picket line, and they dropped to the ground behind a thornbush. Tamsyn, squashed between the two men, slowly raised her head to look over the bush. There was another shout from the camp, and the colonel abruptly pushed her head down into the dirt.
“They haven't seen us,” she protested in a fierce whisper, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “They're changing pickets.”
“Your hair in the moonlight is like a damn torch,” he hissed against her ear. “Cover it with that bandanna you're wearing.”
Tamsyn pulled off the dark kerchief at her throat and tied it over her head. It was annoying to be reminded of this elementary precaution by someone she considered a mere novice at this game, but she couldn't quarrel with the instruction.
“It takes the picket about three minutes to patrol his section,” Gabriel whispered. He'd been concentrating on the activity at the picket line throughout the exchange between the colonel and Tamsyn. “Long enough for one of us to get across.”
“I'll go first,” Tamsyn said. “You follow, Gabriel, and the colonel can come last.”
“No.” Julian stated. “You'll come between us. That way, if anything happens and you're caught, we'll be able to attack from both sides.”
“Surely the same applies to either of you?”
“You're the one Cornichet wants,” he snapped.
“And having winkled you out of there once, I'm damned if I'm going to lose you again. It's bad enough indulging you in this ridiculous whim without jeopardizing my own mission more than I can help.”
For a second Tamsyn debated with herself. He couldn't stop her if she simply launched herself across the ground. Gabriel would follow, and they could manage without help from this damned supercilious colonel. But he did have a point. Pride warred with common sense, and the latter won.
She made no response, merely hunkered down behind the bush, frowning fiercely. Julian gave Gabriel a nod, and as the picket turned at his post to march down the line, the giant leaped forward. He clung to the bare ground, but he was visible for a terrifying few moments under the moonlight; then he disappeared into the shadows beyond the picket line.
The two left behind waited, unmoving. The picket returned and left. Tamsyn didn't wait for the colonel's nod. She darted across the space, crouching low, a diminutive flying figure, and then she too disappeared into the shadows.
Julian waited alone, no longer concerned with the military merits of this exercise. Now that it was begun, all his concentration was on successful completion. His moment came, and he moved out of concealment and ran, conscious of his sword bumping against his hip. His foot caught on a stone and he almost tripped, cursing his clumsiness, but in the full regalia of a cavalry officer he was more encumbered than his companions.
“Over here.” Tamsyn's hissing whisper beckoned him from the gloom, and he dropped to the ground beside the other two behind a woodpile. The camp was surprisingly quiet for this time of night, but they could hear subdued voices from the scattered tents and huts, an occasional burst of laughter, a shout of complaint.
“Let’s get in place.” Tamsyn moved forward on the words, but again Julian caught her arm, his fingers hard, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Same order as before.”
She acceded in silence, and they waited while Gabriel threaded his way through the trees to the humped canvas shape,of the officers' latrine and disappeared behind it.
“You, now.”
The English colonel seemed to think he was in charge, but there was no time to stop and argue the toss with him. Tamsyn flitted away, cherishing the thought of revenge on Cornichet. It was worth putting up with a little of the English milord's autocratic manner to achieve it.
At precisely eleven o'clock Colonel Cornichet emerged from his hut, a glass of cognac in his hand. He paused and looked up at the sky, smelling the freshness of the air. Now that the rain had stopped, the English siege of Badajos would move apace. His own force was too small to go to the support of the citizens and garrison of the town, but if he hadn't lost La Violette, he'd now be in a position to mop up a few of the local partisan bands, and a map of the passes they used through the mountains would have been an Invaluable contribution to the struggling French armies.
He'd planned and almost pulled off a neat coup that would have brought him the congratulations of his superiors and almost certainly a promotion. Something that would have taken him out of this godforsaken land before the miseries of summer came down on them. Instead he'd been outwitted by the English, who were now presumably in possession of all Violette's vital information.
A disgruntled frown drew his eyebrows together as he strode through the camp, making his accustomed tour of the pickets in a dour silence that none of his men chose to break, before he turned and walked purposefully toward the latrines.
“There he goes,” an infantryman observed sotto voce to a companion. “Old man's regular as clockwork.” A ribald response brought a guffaw from both of them as the colonel pushed aside the canvas curtain and disappeared from view.
He was preparing to make himself comfortable on the wooden slats resting over the trench when the tip of a knife poked through the canvas wall at the side of the enclosure. He stared, for a moment unsure what he was seeing, and then the canvas split with a harsh rending, and to his eternal astonishment the small face of La Violette appeared in the opening.
“Bon soir, Colonel Cornichet.” Her white teeth flashed in a far from friendly smile, and the serviceable knife she held pressed into his throat. “We have a little unfinished business, you and I. Don't
shout,” she added softly, seeing him gather his wits. “If you open your mouth, my friend here will blow your brains to kingdom come.”
Cornichet gazed stunned to where Gabriel's pale eyes regarded him with deceptive mildness from behind the girl. The muzzle of a rifle jutted through the torn canvas.
“Sacre bleu,” the colonel muttered at this apparition, as he fumbled desperately with his dropped britches, trying not to move his head against the tip of the knife.
“It's not a pleasant sensation, is it, Colonel?” the girl said, still smiling, but her eyes were as flat and cold as violet stones. The knife pricked, and a bead of blood formed and trickled down to stain the white folds of his stock.
Cornichet's Adam's apple moved convulsively, and the tip of the knife slid upward, pressing into the soft skin beneath his chin. He gave up trying to adjust his dress and stood immobile, sweat gathering on his forehead.
“There's an old saying, Colonel. Do as you would be done by,” La Violette continued. “And something else I recall about the sweetness of vengeance.” The knife tip traced a circle on his skin.
“For God's sake,” he whispered hoarsely. “If you're going to do it, then get on with it.”
She shook her head and her eyes made him shiver, but before she could say anything, St. Simon spoke with brusque impatience from the darkness behind her.
“In the name of goodness, girl! You're as bad as a cat with a mouse. Let's be done with this and get out of here.”
Cornichet stared, dumbstruck as a tall cloaked Englishman pushed the colonel's tormentor aside, thrusting her behind him. He held a cavalry sword in his right hand and looked thoroughly exasperated.
“Forgive me, Cornichet. But there's something I want from you.” His sword flickered twice, so quickly the Frenchman had scarcely time to draw breath, and the rich gold braided epaulets fell with a splash into the latrine trench.
“And his buttons,” La Violette demanded from the darkness.
Julian sighed. “Your pardon, Cornichet, but I struck a bargain with this vengeful wretch.” Again his sword flicked, and one by one the colonel's gold tunic buttons with the Napoleonic eagle stamped on them followed the epaulets into the latrine.
Cornichet seemed to be struggling with his senses, his eyes popping, his jaw working, but before he could gather himself together, his visitor had jumped sideways, back through the ripped canvas, and suddenly he was alone in the small odiferous space. If it weren't for the hole in the canvas and his own denuded uniform, he could almost believe he'd dreamed the whole mortifying episode.
Then he grabbed up his britches, yanking them to his waist, bellowing, “A moi… a moi,” as he burst out into the encampment.
Men came running from all sides, and the irate colonel screamed instructions and garbled explanations as he fumbled with the waist of his britches, his button less tunic flapping open.
Julian realized that Gabriel had vanished as they dived into the woods, hearing the uproar behind them. “We have to split up,” Tamsyn shouted as they raced neck and neck through the undergrowth. “If we separate, it'll be much harder for them to follow us.”
''I’m not letting you out of my sight,” the colonel gritted, seizing her wrist when she ducked sideways.
“I gave you my word!”
“I'm still not letting you out of my sight. Now, run, girl!”
“What do you think I'm doing?” she demanded crossly. “And if you had a brain between your ears, milord colonel, you'd realize that my horse is with your men, and I'll be damned if I'm about to leave him with you.”
“I believe in added insurance” was the cool response. “You don't know the first thing about guerrilla warfare.” It was the last word from either of them on the subject as they pounded onward, heedless of any noise or tracks they might be making. Speed was all that counted.
Confused shouts came from behind them, and rifles cracked erratically. Someone yelled in pain, and there was a roar of fury.
“Sounds like they're shooting each other,” Tamsyn gasped with a gleeful little chuckle. “They don't know what they're looking for. Just imagine Cornichet trying to explain what happened…”
“Stop gloating and save your breath,” Julian ordered, although his own lips twitched at the image of the usually immaculate colonel with his waxed mustache standing in his drawers and his desecrated tunic trying to describe his encounter in the latrine.
A bullet whined over their heads, and suddenly all desire to laugh abandoned them. They were drawing close to the outskirts of the wood where the colonel's men awaited them, but close wasn't good enough with bullets clipping one's ears..
Tamsyn veered sideways, dragging the colonel with her, pushing through what looked to him to be an impenetrable tangle of prickly bushes, but somehow a path revealed itself, although the bushes tore at their clothes.
Then they broke free into the clearing. The sergeant, hearing the uproar, had the twenty men of the Sixth mount; swords in their hands, ready to charge whatever might come at them. Tamsyn scrambled onto Cesar's back just as Gabriel crashed through the undergrowth, his broadsword in his hands. He raised a hand in greeting, his expression as benign and untroubled as always, and swung onto his own charger.
“The men are spoiling for a fight, sir,” the sergeant said, stroking the hilt of his sword. “Reckon they deserve their fun.”
Colonel St. Simon shook his head. “There'll be fighting aplenty at Badajos.” He wheeled his horse, ordering his men forward with an upraised hand.
The cavalcade galloped from the clearing just as a small group of pursuing French burst through, but they were on foot and could do nothing but watch in frustration as their quarry disappeared into the darkness.
St. Simon drew level with Tamsyn's milk-white Arabian. He noticed that she had a long scratch on her cheek from the thorny bushes they'd encountered on their retreat, but it didn't seem to bother her.
How the hell did she manage to claim kinship with some Cornish family? It was the most extraordinary thing, if true. He caught himself looking for signs of English blood in her complexion. She didn't have the olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes of the typical Spaniard; but fair skin, pale hair, and violet eyes, while more typically English, were not unheard of among Spanish families. On balance, there was nothing in her appearance to confirm or deny her claim. This hybrid had inherited some vigorous characteristics from somewhere, though, characteristics more likely to be associated with the robber baron than some demure English maiden… ruthlessness and arrogance, to name but two.
“I trust you're satisfied that I've fulfilled my side of our bargain?” he said with an ironic twist of his mouth.
“Perfectly, milord colonel,” she responded. “And don't pretend you didn't enjoy it, because I could see how your eyes were twinkling.”
“I'm very sure my eyes never twinkle,” the colonel said, revolted at such an image.
“Oh, but they do,” she assured him with a grin, her perfect teeth glimmering in the moonlight. “You've just never been looking in a mirror at the right moment.”
There seemed no adequate response to this, so he changed the subject. “I'll rest the horses when it's absolutely necessary, but other than that, I don't intend to stop until we reach Elvas.”
“Cesar has a great deal of stamina,” she said placidly. “And he was well rested in Cornichet's camp.”
“You, on the other hand, are very short of sleep,” he observed.
“I can sleep in the saddle. I've often done so.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Don't worry, milord colonel. I'm perfectly prepared to uphold my end of the bargain. And I've never yet dropped out of the line of march.”
Once again he could detect the currents of energy surging through the slim, upright figure. She was radiating purpose and determination, and he was instantly uneasy. Whenever he'd sensed that determined energy before, La Violette had been up to no good.
Chapter Five
THE STEADY BOOMING OF THE GUNS BESIEG
ING THE WALLS OF the Spanish town of Badajos drowned all other sound as the cavalcade approached the town standing on a hill in the midst of a flat plain. The sky was metallic, clouds hanging low over the gray earth, creating a uniform colourlessness, broken only by the scarlet tunics of the cavalrymen.
Julian, riding ahead of the troop, was watching Gabriel and Violette, as usual riding off to one side on slightly higher ground. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their gestures it seemed they were engaged in some altercation. The girl was gesticulating fiercely, her body, fluid in the saddle as she made her points. The giant Gabriel in contrast seemed to exude a rocklike obstinacy, occasionally shaking his head in a sharp, brief negative.
They were a two-hour ride from headquarters in the Portuguese border town of Elvas, and Julian would be bringing in his flower just within the five days he'd set himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't bringing in a submissive, intimidated prisoner ready to have her petals plucked, but a vigorous, self-determining mercenary who might be induced to sell her secrets, but certainly wouldn't meekly divulge them for the asking. It would be interesting to see what Wellington made of her… and of his colonel's part in the play.
Julian grimaced. He'd have to find an explanation for how he'd lost his prisoner and had to agree to a negotiated settlement. The truth was far too mortifying. He could only hope that the brigand would keep her mouth shut about that riverside madness.
He became aware that the two were cantering toward him, Gabriel was not looking happy; the girl's expression was neutral. They reached him and turned their horses to ride alongside him.
“While I'm gone, I shall hold you responsible for the bairn, Englishman,” Gabriel announced gruffly, his hand, in what seemed to Julian very pointed fashion, resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Never you mind, but you're responsible, mark that well.”
Julian shook his head with a half laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to be responsible for the actions of La Violette? Good God, man, I know my limitations.”
