Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa

by Isabel Simonds

  She was too fast for his sword to be much use—he arced it down, but she had already closed the gap and slashed at him with the little stabbing blade. His horse stepped back as her own—battle-trained—engaged with his, screaming.

  She saw red blood sheet down the man's front and realized she had slashed quite severely. Not badly enough to kill, but it must be stinging like the blazes. She felt a moment of compassion. He raised his sword again, but this time she nudged her horse forward, aiming for the gap in the trees. She heard a grunt and turned, riding back to where William was taking on the three others.

  He was wielding his sword defensively—using it to block the blades that came at him, the melee too tight to strike. Cat wheeled round and threw her horse, and herself, at one of the officers whose back was turned. He grunted as the little knife came down on his shoulder. She could feel blood slick on the blade, but the horror didn't sink through: simply the fact that it was making it hard to grip and use.

  One of the other soldiers rode at her and William roared, bullying forward and swinging his sword in a cleaving arc, straight for the man's head.

  Cat turned away in the instant when it connected.

  The other four soldiers broke, then, and rode.

  The clearing was suddenly very quiet.

  Cat felt her body collapse forward in the saddle. She was shaking. Now that the threat was gone, she realized she was exhausted. Absolutely and completely. She was cold, too, and sweating. She stayed where she was and let the quiet sink into her, let her body come back to the present and awareness.

  “You are unhurt?”

  Cat looked up. William's voice was tense. He sounded as exhausted as she was. His handsome face was pale, dark shadows plain around his eyes.

  “I think so,” she said. She laughed, shakily. “I'm tired.”

  He nodded. “Always happens, after engaging,” he said. “I feel awful myself.” He laughed.

  Cat nodded. Damn it, but she was sleepy! She sighed and shook her head, fighting for concentration.

  “Should we go?”

  He nodded. “Best if we go. That lot might alert someone to our presence. We need to get out of here.”

  She nodded. “Yes.” Why was it so tiring even to speak? The thought of riding anywhere was horrendous. She reached down and patted her horse's neck, realizing she must be at least as tired as she was.

  “She saved my life, I think,” Cat said.

  He nodded. “They're good horses.” He patted his own. “Milady?”

  Cat looked up. He was looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Intent, but laced with something else. She couldn't say what it was she read there.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  She shrugged, feeling awkward. “I learned,” she said. She looked at the ground, awkwardly. “I read books, I studied. I practiced.” She looked at him, feeling a little defiant. “Why?”

  She waited, expecting him to say something derisive—you fight like a girl, maybe. Something one of the pompous, self-assured youths she rode with sometimes would have said.

  “You were amazing.”

  Cat felt her face flush and, to her surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She looked away, dashing them from her face with a peremptory hand. “Thanks,” she managed, through a tight throat. “We need to get on.”

  “Yes,” he said even as she turned her horse sharply and they headed back up toward the road.

  She rode a little ahead, letting the tears she had been holding back run freely now. She didn't know why she was crying—not exactly. The horror, the exhaustion, the shock. And above it all, the acknowledgment.

  He had said she was amazing. He wasn't shocked. He admired her—not in spite of her ways, but because of them. She swallowed hard.

  “Shall we stop off at a town?” she asked. She looked down at her hands—they were brown-stained with dried blood. She felt nauseous, suddenly.

  He chuckled. “We should get cleaned up,” he agreed.

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” she said.

  He nodded . She slipped off the horse and vomited alongside the path. Her stomach heaved as though she was ill, and when it finally stopped, she felt exhausted. She cleaned herself as best she could and staggered back toward the horse.

  “Alright?” he asked.

  “Almost,” she said. She leaned against her horse, feeling drained. “Silly me, huh?” she shrugged. “Weak stomach.” Her legs shook under her, and she tensed, trying not to fall.

  To her surprise, he dismounted and came to stand next to her. She tensed as his hand reached for her shoulder but didn't move away.

  “It's normal,” he said. “First engagement with the enemy, same thing happens to everyone. We're not made to kill our own kind—not really. It's a step that's meant to be hard.”

  Cat felt her legs give way, then. If he'd reprimanded her, teased her, scolded her, she could have handled it. But his gentle understanding let her finally let go. She collapsed, and he caught her and, very gently, arms strong around her, lifted her so that she could get back into the saddle again.

  “Th...thank you,” she said.

  He looked into her eyes. His were so blue, and held a wealth of concern in them, and a tenderness that surprised her. She stared back. Framed with long lashes, his eyes were treacherous pools into which, if she fell, she might spend eternity drowning.

  She looked away, breaking that spell. “Um, we should go.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  He mounted—she heard the sigh as he settled himself into the saddle—and they headed on.

  It was getting dark by the time they encountered the first village. They reached the inn—a small, dark place, illuminated by the light of a single lamp, swaying in a bracket on the wall.

  Cat swung down out of the saddle. They had washed their hands and faces off in a running stream, but she still ached for a pitcher of warm water, some hot food, and a bed.

  “Milady?” he frowned.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to ask your assistance.”

  “Oh?” the oddly supplicatory tone surprised her. She wasn't used to humility from this man.

  “You, it seems,” he said, “speak excellent French.”

  “Oh.” Cat blushed, glad it was dark. She bit her lip. She had spoken to the soldiers so automatically that she hadn't stopped to think about the fact that she had unquestionably just given herself away. She spoke like a native, with no trace of an accent or any pauses.

  “I must ask—where did you learn that?”

  Cat swallowed hard. He was very close, in the stable-yard, and it was, after all, just the two of them. They had killed together, guarded each other. She could trust him.

  “I...I spent many years in France, as a child,” she said carefully. “I was born here.”

  There. It was the truth but hidden sufficiently that he wouldn't guess if he wasn't the sort of person it would be safe to let know.

  “Oh,” he nodded. His blue eyes were mild. He seemed to accept that. “Well, that explains it then. My question was...”

  “Can I speak to the innkeeper?” she grinned, remembering the encounter of early that morning.

  “Whew,” he nodded. “It was that.”

  “Of course,” she said. She didn't think about what she was doing until after she'd leaned forward and gripped his hand. His fingers closed on hers, strong and hard.

  She swallowed and let her own hand drop. He let his grip fall open. She was a little frustrated by how she felt the imprint of his fingers, long after he'd let go.

  “Let's go, then,” she said. “I'll talk to the innkeeper.”

  He nodded.

  She did.

  As she settled herself in bed that night—for a change, she had the best bed in the establishment, and William, next door, almost as good—she found herself thinking of him.

  He was not so bad, she thought, shifting in bed, conscious of his presen
ce on the other side of the wall from her. She blushed.

  Catharine LeFevre, go to sleep. He's a boorish, arrogant officer and you'll have got heartily sick of his boorish company by tomorrow night.

  She drifted off to sleep, exhausted but with the hint of a smile still playing about her lips.

  She couldn't quite forget about him, or the joy she felt whenever she saw him.

  Chapter 5: The road home

  The rain came, briefly, on the third day. William gritted his teeth and rode through it. By now, he knew the pattern of the weather. It would soak them to the skin for the hours between ten and one, then move on.

  He glanced sideways toward where his companion rode. She was straight-backed, teeth gritted. She had abandoned caution now and donned a red coat—the same, almost, as the one he wore. He shook his head. He still didn't know where she'd got it. He was scared to ask, he realized, grinning.

  She probably wouldn't tell me, anyway.

  They rode on in silence.

  The memories of the fight in the clearing played out again and again as he rode. He couldn't forget the way she had launched herself, fearlessly, at the man facing them. He was armed with a musket, for pity's sake! Any recruit he knew would have been half-terrified.

  That woman is impulsive!

  He shook his head again, grinning. She was like a book full of secrets. The more he read, the more twisted the path became and the more he sought to know more.

  She was born in France, she said. Yet, her English was also perfect—unaccented, even peppered with phrases and curse-words only an Englishman would know.

  She must have had parents who traveled.

  The thought that an English couple would have thought to spend Lady Favor's confinement in a foreign land made limited sense. But, he reflected, who knew? His father certainly had a longstanding dislike of her own, so who could guess what manner of a person he was?

  All William knew was that his daughter was remarkable. The journey seemed far too short.

  When I get back to England, we will go our separate ways.

  It was a thought that made his heart ache with a sudden yawning emptiness.

  Pull yourself together.

  “Milady?” he called.

  “Yes?”

  She turned in the saddle. He drew in a sharp breath. Her hair had come loose during the ride, and the red strands fell down to her waist, darkened by rain, like curling tendrils of placid fire. He swallowed hard.

  “Um, we should rejoin the road. We'll reach Vic-Fezensac by midday.”

  “Yes.”

  They rode on in silence.

  Just before noon, the rain cleared. They reached the town and paused on the outskirts.

  “I'll do the talking,” she said.

  He nodded. He cleared his throat, wanting to say something but not sure, yet, how.

  “The journey ends tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other.

  She looked away sharply.

  “I don't want to go home.”

  He stared. “Milady?”

  For himself, the thought was bizarre. All through the long ride, he had been thinking, alternately, of her and of the return to England. The thought of sailing to the land, seeing the greenness, the familiarity of it all, kept him going. She didn't want to return?

  “I want to stay.”

  He sighed. “Milady...”

  “You don't understand. I know.” She nodded and turned her horse, riding away.

  He paused where he was a moment, knowing she was right—he didn't understand. All he knew was that he was not looking forward to tomorrow.

  They stopped in the Vic-Fezensac for the midday meal. He had to admit that her French was valuable—they could travel through towns, instead of skirting them. And the food was a relief. With very few farmsteads in sight, he had no idea how they would have managed to restock their victuals had she not been with them.

  Now, he leaned back in the chair, sighing. “That was good.” he pushed aside a plate that had contained stew but was now empty.

  “It was,” she nodded. She was still eating, with relish. Her silence had moderated slightly with the appearance of the food, but he still felt a need to make clarity from earlier.

  “About what you said...” he said.

  “I don't wish to consider it,” she said, reaching for a bread-roll with which to sop up the last of the gravy.

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  They finished dinner, managing to pay for it from the limited stock of purloined French coin he had, then rode on.

  At nightfall, they stopped in a small village, finding accommodation only thanks to her language skills. At dawn, they rode on.

  All morning, William felt a heaviness growing stronger in him. He could smell the sea in the air by noon. The ridiculous thing was, he should have been excited. Part of him was. But this sense of sorrow weighed on him.

  “It's almost the coast,” she called. She was a little ahead of him, reaching the crest of a hill. “If there was no cloud, the sea would be there.”

  “Yes,” he called up, feeling the depression settle a little further on his heart. “I know.”

  She looked back at him. Her hair was dry today, but it was still curly, the strands rain-washed, clean and shining palely in the afternoon light. He swallowed hard. He would miss that face.

  She looked into his eyes a moment. He felt the touch of that almost like a physical touch.

  “Let's go!”

  He nodded and rode ahead.

  Two hours after noon, they reached the sea. The wind was stiff, buffeting them. William turned to her, the wind streaming her hair out and making her have to shout to be heard.

  “Will we go to the quayside?” she yelled.

  “Yes!” he called back. “But first, let's pause for lunch.”

  “Yes!” she yelled. “I agree! I'm starving.”

  He laughed. “Me too.”

  They rode into town to find an inn.

  Throughout their lunch—fish soup and fresh-baked, crispy loaf—William felt the same dull sorrow hold him. He noticed she seemed restless, too. He wondered why.

  When they stood and left, going to the inn yard to fetch their horses, she turned to him.

  “I'm not going,” she said. “I'm staying here.”

  William let out a long breath. “Milady. I cannot allow that. I...”

  “Cannot allow that?” she whirled round, her eyes, not angry, but hurt. “Sir!” she said. “We've ridden together for four days. I thought...”

  He saw a tear in her eyes and stared, horrified.

  “Milady!” he said, reaching out to take her hand gently. “What? Did I upset you?”

  She blinked, not letting the tears fall. Looked away from him. “I thought I could trust you.”

  William sighed. She was right. He did know her. Knew her passion for defense of her country's freedom. Knew she wanted to be part of this struggle in whatever way she could. He knew how sincere she was in that, now—had literally seen it with his own vision.

  “Milady,” he said, “I know you want to stay. But if I leave you here, what is there to stop you going back to fighting?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted readily, making him realize he had read the situation right. He swallowed, feeling sick with fear for her. “But...”

  “But what?” he asked, as she continued.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked, smiling wryly.

  He sighed. She certainly could fight—without any thought of danger. Which was precisely what bothered him. He had seen recruits like that. He had seen precisely how long they usually lasted in their first battle, too. About twenty minutes, before they ran at an insurmountable enemy and were shot.

  He couldn't let her do that. An idea occurred to him. One that had crept into his mind the previous night, treacherous and insistent. He hadn't quite managed to dislodge it yet, despite his best efforts. It came back to him, inescapab
le.

  “I know,” he said, clearing his throat. “I know you want to fight. And something occurred to me last night...” he paused. “A way you can. A less dangerous way.”

  “What?” she asked. Her eyes had lit up now.

  “It's very dangerous,” he said. “But in a less...direct way. It involves your knowledge of French.”

  “Oh?” she frowned. “You mean, translating captured information?”

  “Um, yes...partly that,” he said, not wanting to continue. “And, well...other things. You see, we need people who spy.”

  He heard her pause. He looked up. As he'd feared, her eyes shone.

  “You think I could do that?” she asked. “Oh, William!”

  She had never used his first name before. He felt it almost like a blow. A welcome one, but one that could have felled him as sure as cannon fire. While he was trying to recover from that, she drew in a breath, continuing.

  “I mean, sir,” she said. “Thank you! Where can...how do I do that? Can I sign up?”

  He laughed, despite the gravity of the situation. “You seem enthusiastic!” he said. Again, he was painfully reminded of the patriotic, enthusiastic recruits he'd seen shot. “Well, I have an idea. I can write you a letter of recommendation, to Colonel Wallace. He's doing the recruiting.” He looked around. They were a few hours from Bayonne, which was held by the British. William made a spontaneous decision.

  “We'll go to Bayonne together. There, you can meet with Colonel Green, who can ensure you meet with Wallace. I believe Green can organize you safe accommodation until such a time as you can begin your...occupation.”

  She looked at him with shining eyes. “I look forward to it, sir.”

  He nodded, swallowing hard. He couldn't help the pain in his heart. He might have just signed her over to danger and death. But she was grinning as if he'd given her the dearest wish.

  “I'm glad,” he said, managing to smile. “But...be safe. Please?”

  She looked into his eyes. They shone with a joy he had never seen before, in any living person.

  “I will be safe,” she said.

  He nodded and turned away, feeling wretched. “I'll write the note as soon as we're inside.”

  He wrote it, blew on the ink, sealed it.

  “There,” he said, feeling as if he was passing over a death-warrant. He wasn't sure yet if it was hers, or his own. His heart felt utterly empty, as if someone had shot it.