Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa

by Isabel Simonds

  “Well, milady?” he said, turning to her and raising his hat, trying to maintain his dignity and trying, more valiantly, not to stare at her ankle where it protruded from below the dress, he turned to her. “Shall we ride?”

  “Assuredly yes, sir,” she nodded.

  They set off at a trot.

  While they rode, William looked around. The countryside was bleak grassland, rolling over hills and into valleys supporting pine-trees. He glanced at Catharine, noting with admiration how straight-backed she was.

  “You like the countryside?” he asked.

  She raised a brow. “The French countryside is beautiful.”

  William frowned. “You like French things?”

  “I like the countryside,” she said firmly. “I do not like the men who rule it.”

  William nodded. “I sympathize with you, milady. Is that why you fight?”

  He hadn't wanted to ask the question, but his curiosity had been burning within him since they met. He had to know the answer.

  “No,” she said. “I fight, not against France, but for England. For its continued liberty and the right of other countries to likewise govern themselves. You?”

  “Me?” he frowned, still dumbstruck. The answer was measured, weighty and quick.

  “Why do you fight?”

  He paused. “Well...” he felt himself pull his chin, a habit when he was thinking. He made himself lower his hand to the pommel of his saddle. “I suppose I fight for liberty, as you do. And, well, because there comes a time when enough of our youths have died on foreign landmasses. It's time to end this war.”

  He was surprised by the rawness of his voice as he said that. He hadn't known, until she asked, how deeply passionate he felt about this. He risked a glance at her. She was looking into his eyes with such a breadth of feeling that he had to swallow hard.

  “Yes,” she said, softly. “I agree.”

  They rode on in silence.

  While they rode, the wind started, a soft breeze at first, then rising to tug at shirt-sleeves and coats. William shivered and envied her cunning network of plaits. His cropped hair—his shako was strapped to the back of his pack—let the wind go straight through.

  “You're not cold?” he questioned.

  She laughed. “I spent worse nights by the road,” she answered.

  “What?” William laughed. “My lady?”

  She grinned at him. “What?” she said. “I had to get here, you know. It took three days to ride from Biarritz, and I didn't fancy staying in inns all the way. Leaves too many traces.”

  He swallowed hard. “My lady, that was dangerous.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I know.”

  William felt his whole body respond to that look and realized, belatedly, that his body was in a dangerous state of longing. He flushed and looked away.

  Damn this woman! She was braver than he was, manlier, in a funny way. And yet he ached for her—she touched him in a way he would never have believed a woman could. He had never felt this for anyone before. She understood him better than he understood himself, it seemed.

  “We have another five hours riding?” she asked. Her voice was oddly tight, as if he'd done something to offend her. William snapped his head round to stop staring.

  “Um, yes,” he said, feeling embarrassed. The poor woman! He was supposed to be protecting her, and here he was staring like she was Christmas pudding on a cold day.

  “Well, then,” she nodded. “I suppose we ought to pick up the pace?”

  “We should spare the horses,” he cautioned automatically.

  “We need to hurry if we're to get to Dumaine by night.”

  He turned and looked at her, surprised. His initial reaction was disbelief—he was so used to giving orders that the thought of someone countermanding was almost shocking. He just sighed.

  “My lady, we are riding horses that need to be paced. If you want to speed ahead, by all means, do so. But we are in hostile territory, and we can't just ask for a fresh mount.”

  She was about to say something, he could see it. Then she held her retort back.

  “Milady?”

  No answer.

  William sighed. When he turned around, she was riding behind him, slowly, back straight, face pale, eyes blazing.

  He sighed. He almost wished she would shout at him. He would have known what to do about that. This stiff silence was awful. He slumped in the saddle and drew his coat closer about him to keep out the worst wind.

  William, you're a fool.

  He sighed. He was speaking sense, and he knew it. But did he have to put it in such a way? He wished now that he hadn't. But he had, and he would have to put up with it.

  What does it matter? You will be in her company for three days—maybe four days—and then never see her again. Why do you care so much?

  All the same, as the silence wore on, William found the dull ache in his heart getting worse. They kept it up for two hours.

  “We should stop for lunch,” he said, as his stomach growled ominously.

  “Yes.”

  Again, her voice was tight and peremptory. William sighed. He stopped and slid off the saddle.

  She halted and stayed where she was, gripping her horse's bridle. They were in the middle of a field; the nearest stand of trees about twenty paces away. William inclined his head in that direction. “We should go there.”

  She nodded.

  They walked to the trees together.

  William carried his saddlebags. He had packed two thick slices of bread, a withered apple. Some cheese that they'd collected on their forays into captured towns, which was hard as a rock but tasted salty and good if you chewed it right. He waited until they were under the trees and dug it out of the pouch.

  “Um, here,” he said.

  He passed her the bread. Her fingers touched his. Fine and soft-skinned, the touch sent a jolt through him that made his loins ache.

  “Um, it's warmer out of the wind,” he said. His voice sounded like he'd been drinking vinegar—tight and worn.

  “Yes.”

  They ate the bread in silence. William, studying her, wished he could think of something to say to cross the gap. In the white linen dress, her hair tied back, she looked diminished, somehow; strangely forlorn.

  She's an odd scrap, she is.

  All the same, his heart ached to see her sad.

  He finished his bread and passed her the cheese. She took it wordlessly, and they ate, standing in the grove, each looking out in opposite directions. He sighed.

  He reached into the bag again and found the one wizened apple. He brought it out and rolled it in his hands a moment, then divided it.

  “Here,” he said.

  She walked over this time and took it. Looked into his eyes.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He found himself staring into her eyes, and she looked up into his. He felt the oddest sensation; as if the whole world had stopped, as if time had stopped. There was just this space, this moment. Her eyes.

  They were brown, he noticed—a rich, full-bodied brown with russet notes. They had long lashes and were wide and luminous with tiny flecks in them.

  “Are you cold?” she asked.

  He shivered. He had no idea how long he'd been standing looking into her eyes. All he knew was that he'd entirely lost track of everything in that moment.

  “Um, no,” he mumbled, feeling like a fool. “Um...we should go. Got a lot of time to ride before we get to Dumaine.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We have.”

  He caught a look in her eyes that was teasing, laughing. It was, in its own way, a reprieve.

  He turned away, hiding his smile, and together, they rode on.

  Chapter 4: A tense moment

  The inn bed was hard, but it was good to be warm. Cat rolled out of bed and stretched, bleary-eyed after a night of restless sleep.

  She reached for her dress and slid it on over her head, looking out of the window at the gray clouds th
at overhung the landscape. She frowned.

  What is the matter with me?

  There was a strange restlessness inside her—a feeling of at once frustration and impatience, and...something else. Some elusive wanting that tickled at the back of her head and made her feel that something lacked in her world at present.

  “Come on, Cat. You're short on sleep,” she said to herself. She shook out her hair, doing her best with her fingers to tease the knots out. She watched her uneasy progress in the grimy mirror on the wall opposite. It was only as she worked out the knots that she realized she had spoken to herself in English.

  She grinned, wryly. It was rubbing off on her at last.

  Usually, in her own home, she spoke and thought in French. How odd that, in the middle of a small French inn, in an obscure village on the road, she would start to think and speak, even to herself, in English.

  “Well, that is odd.”

  She grinned again, recalling yesterday. She had been so vexed with that man! She recalled that moment in the woods, when he had met her eye, and felt a strange uncertainty creep over her. What was that all about?

  The restlessness was back, and she sat down on the bed, tugged on her boots—they were riding boots that went with the cavalry uniform she'd borrowed—the only shoes she had with her. She couldn't help laughing at what an odd spectacle she must make.

  At least the skirt covers the boots almost to the toes.

  She abandoned her hair, tying it back from the nape of her neck with one of the stray bits of torn handkerchief she still had with her, then plaiting it all away severely.

  That'll do it.

  She walked softly out, still feeling that strange, restless feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  At the door of the dining-room, she stopped. He was there, over by the window. The pale light shone through and outlined his profile, showing how handsome he was. His nose was perfectly straight, his chin slightly softened, his eyes big-lidded and distant, as if he spent most of his life reflecting on what he saw, contemplating it.

  He turned and saw her. His brow went up. She found herself smiling.

  “Ah! Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you,” she said. Damn it! Why was her throat so tight? She felt the impatience return and pulled out her chair, sitting down at an angle to him. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile again and felt silly. Why was she blushing?

  “You could sleep?” he asked.

  She raised a brow. “I managed. You?”

  “Adequately, yes,” he said, rolling his shoulders experimentally. “Better than a tent, I'd say.”

  “Well, perhaps,” she nodded.

  He frowned and she felt vaguely shy. Why was he looking at her so inquiringly? She shifted uncomfortably.

  “I find I like tents more,” she said. “They have less fetid smells.”

  He laughed again. “My lady, you're right. Well, I think the breakfast is much better than the accommodation. Just take a breath of that, eh?”

  Cat breathed in and smelled the enticing scent of fresh baking. Her stomach cramped, and she nodded.

  “I think so.”

  When the proprietor appeared with fresh-baked bread, a platter of cheese and a pitcher of milk, Cat could have sung a hymn. She was famished!

  They ate in silence. Once, Cat caught his eye on her, and she flushed, feeling awkward. He was smiling, though, in a way that warmed her. She eventually leaned back, stomach painfully full.

  “That,” she sighed, “was breakfast.”

  He was grinning unashamedly now, and she had to laugh.

  “What?” she asked, a little defensive.

  “I was pleased to see someone enjoy their breakfast,” he said.

  She blushed, wondering if she'd done something embarrassing. “Well, I was hungry,” she said.

  “Yes,” he nodded vigorously. “I'm sure you were. Which reminds me. I think we ought to victual ourselves for lunch now—the innkeeper will surely have a loaf or two he could sell us. I, for one, intend not to starve on the road to Biarritz.”

  Cat nodded. “Good idea.”

  They went through to the front room, and Cat winced as William cleared his throat and spoke execrable French. Where had he learned? She felt as if someone was brushing her skin with a horse-brush just hearing it. If the town hadn't been one recently occupied by the British forces, she was sure the man would have shot him just for the way he said s'il vous plait.

  “Whew,” she sighed, as they headed out into the fresh air. William had a bundle under his arm containing a loaf, wrapped in a cloth, which the man had given them sullenly.

  “It's good to be out,” William nodded.

  They headed out into the sunshine.

  When they reached the stables and mounted up, Cat felt abruptly shy again. She was sure she'd made a fool of herself somehow. And why was it that she felt this strange excitement whenever she was near him? It was disconcerting.

  “How far do we intend to go today?” she asked softly.

  “About as far as Auch. That leaves us two days from the coast.”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  They rode on in silence. Cat shivered and wished she had worn the red coat she'd brought with her—though the dress had long sleeves, it was not exactly warm. It wasn't just the cold, either. They were heading into hostile territory. The countryside around them was flat grasslands, with little cover. They were easy targets for any French soldiers who might be looking for British soldiers on the way to the coast. And with William's red coat to mark them, they were prime targets.

  I don't feel safe.

  They rode on. She knew she didn't need to mention it. He was likely worried too. He was used to this, and, much as she hated to admit it, far from stupid. He'd have thought of it, same as her.

  It was at midday that they saw them.

  A party of five, riding low on the hillside opposite, keeping to the trees. They were shadowing them.

  William was riding closer to Cat. She inclined her head.

  “Saw them?”

  “Yes,” she nodded in reply to his query. “I did.”

  “They're trailing us,” he said.

  “I thought so too.”

  He raised a hand, and they stopped. Opposite them, across the valley, the French stopped too. Cat felt her heart start to thump in panic. She looked at them, assessing. They were five soldiers, the front one a lieutenant—she knew the French uniforms and recognized the pattern. They were carrying sabers. She shivered.

  “Should we ride?”

  “Wait,” William said. “Let's watch where they go.”

  She nodded and, tense, they sat together as if they were a single form, hushed and focused, waiting for the troops across the valley to make the first move.

  They did. The leader signaled them ahead, and they headed down the hill.

  “They'll meet us at the foot of the valley,” William whispered.

  “I have an idea,” Cat said.

  William frowned.

  “We can't go round,” he said. “We have to meet them. I want you to stay back.”

  Cat bridled but said nothing.

  They rode slowly down the hill.

  As they had both expected, the troops were waiting for them. William had, sensibly, removed his red coat. They had already seen it—they all knew that—so it was a surprise when a man hailed them, leaning casually on his musket, dismounted.

  “Alors! Salut!”

  Cat swallowed. “Salut, frere,” she said. Hello, brother.

  She didn't look at William, who had gone oddly silent beside her.

  “Nous avons faim,” the man said. He wasn't smiling anymore but had lifted the musket, threateningly.

  Nous avons faim. We are hungry.

  In the bushes, the four other soldiers appeared suddenly, still mounted, a palpable threat. They all had hands on swords, and the promise of death hung in the air.

  Cat looked at them. They were all gaunt, with that particular, glaze-eyed
look that spoke of long deprivation. She nodded. Her heart felt a sudden stab of compassion.

  “Nous avons pain,” she said. We have bread.

  She turned and nodded. Pale-faced, William reached for the saddlebags and produced the bread. He held it out. The soldier, eyes suddenly alert again, darted forward and took it, grabbing at it in a real hunger too great to conceal.

  He tore off a piece right there and passed it to his companion, who tore into it likewise. The whole loaf disappeared in the time it would have taken Cat to thread a needle. She swallowed hard.

  “Avez-vous plus pain?” the man demanded.

  She shook her head.

  “Non. C'est finis.” No. It's finished.

  His face darkened. “Ce n'est pas vrai.” That's not true.

  He walked closer. His whole stance was menacing. One of the men on the horses growled in agreement. The clearing was quiet, aching with the promise of death.

  Cat looked round to William, who had gone gray. She felt a wave of panic. Before she'd thought about it, she was reaching for the knife that she still had, strapped into her boot.

  Now!

  The man before them had a gun, but he didn't have the time or the range for it to be useful. None of the others had guns; they already knew that.

  She rode forward, screaming a wordless cry.

  Beside her, William let loose.

  She rode her horse into the gunman, knocking him down. She didn't look round, but the noise told her William had engaged with the enemy. The man in front of her stumbled and fell forward, allowing her to use the little knife. She sawed down, heard him scream and felt an instant horror that paralyzed her. She had never actually hurt anyone before.

  The moment of paralysis continued as one of the horsemen rode at her. The other man was on the ground now, clawing at it, and she didn't want to look. She heard a clash of steel on steel and knew William was fighting with the enemy. At that moment, one of the other soldiers rode at her.

  She screamed—not in fear, just because she had to do something, had to express all the anger and the terror and the strange disembodied action as she drew back the knife and rode at him.