by Mary Balogh
“Your supposed sister-in-law did not know you yesterday,” he said quietly.
“Perhaps she was playing my game,” she said. “Duarte has a strong sense of fun.”
He looked at her and nodded slightly before turning to walk on. She flexed aching legs before following along after him. And she felt so mortally depressed that she did not know how she would smile if he turned to her again.
She was in love with him—deeply, irrevocably in love. And not just in love. She loved him. He was the man she had looked for unconsciously all her life, her gentle, poetic Robert transformed by time and circumstances into a tough, self-reliant man of firm principle and hidden passion. Robert—her long-dead, bitterly mourned Robert—resurrected. And the uncanny resemblance she had always noticed was uncanny no longer. And her attraction to him was no longer a mystery. Or her love for him. She had always known that she would never stop loving her Robert—Robert Blake. And she had not.
And yet the tough, scarred body and the hard, damaged, attractive face! They were Robert’s? Her Robert’s? She felt somehow like crying for the lost boy, for his shattered dreams, for the pain she and his father had caused him between them. And yet she could not cry for the man he had become. For though tough and hard, he was proud and sensitive too. He was not a bitter man. And alive. Her father had lied to her. Robert was alive!
She loved him. And later on this very day she would be saying good-bye to him—again. The thought was enough to make her feel panic. He would discover his mistake, of course, and would know that they were not enemies. But he would be mortified—and she would not be innocent. She had shamefully misled him because it had been fun to do so. Fun! Her stomach felt like a lead weight in her. He would be angry. He would not be able to leave her fast enough.
And even if he were not, even if he were willing to forgive her and shake her by the hand, still they must part. For she had the life of a marquesa to resume and he had a battle to fight. Perhaps a battle to die in. She stumbled against one of the rough boulders on the hillside and went down painfully on one knee, and he was beside her in an instant, catching her beneath her elbow with one firm hand.
“Oh, Robert.” She snapped at him in quite uncharacteristic fashion and snatched her arm away. “Don’t fuss. I shall survive.”
He stood looking down at her silently while she rubbed her knee. She looked up at him and swallowed.
“Will you?” she asked, and she could hear that her voice was not quite steady. “Will you survive?”
“I always have,” he said.
“And does ‘always’ include tomorrow?” she asked him.
He said nothing, but looked down at her broodingly. And then she was in his arms, her face hidden against his coat—she thought that she had probably put herself there.
“Oh,” she said, “I hate situations over which I have no control. I don’t care how difficult or dangerous something is, provided I can control it or at least have a good chance of doing so. I have been able to control almost everything else in my life. Except leaving you that first time. And except marrying Luis. I could control what happened in Lisbon. I could control what happened in Salamanca. But this I cannot control. I wish I were going into battle too. Then I would feel better.”
“Joana . . .” he said.
“I would,” she told him passionately. “If I could fight alongside you, Robert, I would not be afraid at all. I would laugh with the excitement of it all. I swear I would. I hate being a woman!”
“I love your being a woman,” he said, and his arms were about her and he was hugging her tightly to him.
“And I hate this,” she said. “This womanly hysteria and clinging. I hate myself. Let me go at once.” She pushed at his chest and tossed her hair back from her face. “If you would not be hovering over me just like a guardian angel every time I cough or stumble, Robert, I would do very nicely indeed. Kindly walk on and let me follow you in my own way. I promise you that I will get there under my own power or die in the attempt. Go!”
He went after looking steadily into her eyes for several uncomfortable moments. She wished his eyes were not blue—so gloriously blue. She hated his eyes. She kicked at the rock that had tripped her, grimaced, and climbed on.
And even if he forgave her, and even if he survived, there could be no possible future for them. None. They were who they were and nothing had changed since he was seventeen and she fifteen. Though he was the son of the Marquess of Quesnay, he was as much a bastard now as he had been then. And she was as much her father’s daughter. And now she was Luis’s widow and carried around with her her ridiculous title and was burdened with her enormous wealth and consequence.
Even if he forgave her and even if he survived, there were realities to be faced. They would not meet after today, or if they did, it would be as remote strangers.
“Well,” she said crossly, speaking much more loudly than she needed to, “you don’t have to walk so fast just to prove to me that I am not your equal and cannot keep up.” They were climbing a particularly steep part of the hill.
He stopped immediately and turned to look at her and wait for her to come up with him. “Joana,” he said, and there was a smile lurking in his eyes, “I have never heard you complaining so much.”
“I am not complaining!” she said. “I am merely out of breath.”
He took her by surprise by cupping her face with both hands and lowering his head to kiss her softly on the lips. “I know this is difficult for you,” he said. “More difficult, I daresay, than for me, though I do not know how that could be. I’m sorry. Believe me when I say I am sorry.”
“Are you forgetting,” she said, “that I had you beaten in Salamanca and arranged it so that there were four against one? Are you forgetting that I had you thrown in a prison cell and beaten daily?”
“No.” He took his hands from her face. “That all seems such a long time ago. Have you caught your breath again?”
“Robert,” she said, and she looked at him with unaccustomed earnestness, “I have deceived you dreadfully and quite deliberately. But not maliciously. Will you remember that? It is just that I must always take up a challenge. I cannot seem to help myself. And I can never resist teasing, especially those I like best. Will you forgive me when you remember this conversation?”
“This is war, Joana,” he said. “There is no point in bearing grudges. We have both done what we must do in this conflict.”
She sighed. “But I of course have done a little more than that,” she said. “Continue on your way, Robert, and don’t you dare move like a funeral procession merely because I just accused you of walking too fast. You were right. I am in a bad mood and I am never in a bad mood and do not know how to handle it. We are almost at the top. Is there really an army just the other side? It looks almost deserted.”
“Just the way the Beau wants it to look,” he said. “I believe the French will be suspicious of every bare and silent slope before these wars are at an end.” There were some pickets on the slope, but no sign of a whole army.
He strode onward, a little more slowly than before despite her warning, and she kept pace with him.
And there was that other thing too, the thing that had dominated her life for three years and had only recently paled in significance beside her growing love for Robert and her equally growing knowledge that only an inevitable parting awaited them.
She had failed. She had persevered against all the odds until she had seen him again, the man who had raped and killed Maria, and then she had failed to kill him. She had had her chance—the perfect chance. And yet she had failed. And now it seemed that she could never succeed. Soon she would be behind the whole of the British and Portuguese armies in their seemingly impregnable position, and there was no chance that she would see Colonel Leroux again.
Unless she went back to the French side. She could still do that, she supposed. They still thought her
loyal. They still thought she had been taken against her will, as a hostage. It was probable, though, that they would not think so for very much longer, not once they had come up against the solid barrier of the Lines of Torres Vedras. Then they would know that she had deceived them, that she worked for the British, not for them.
She had failed. Joana hated to fail. She had never yet given in to failure. And yet it seemed that on this occasion she must. She was mortally depressed.
And then suddenly they were on the crest of the hill and her eyes widened in shock even though prior knowledge had led her to expect the sight. An army—a whole vast and busy army—was stretched out for as far as she could see on either side of her, just out of sight of anyone even a few feet down the eastern slope.
“Jesus!” she heard Captain Blake say.
The Convent of Bussaco was about a mile to the north of them.
No one recognized her and she recognized no one. Not that she looked at anyone to recognize him despite the cheerful comments and catcalls and whistles that were thrown her way as she passed beside Captain Blake. All the other women—wives and camp followers—were well away from the crest of the ridge, in the rear with the baggage.
This was it, she kept thinking. The end. And she could not even say a proper good-bye to him. All would be done in public from this moment on.
The convent looked familiar and yet strange too, bustling as it was with military men and activities instead of basking in its usual quiet peace. Joana smiled at one man, a major, who had favored her with an openly appreciative glance as he hurried past and then returned his gaze, startled, for a second look.
“Yes, it is I, George,” she said gaily. “A wonderful disguise, would you not say?”
But the major said nothing—or not in her hearing, anyway. She whisked herself onward to keep up with Captain Blake’s lengthened stride. He looked grim and remote, and she was reminded of an earlier impression that she would not like to be his enemy facing him in battle.
Headquarters was incredibly busy. No one walked, it seemed. Everyone ran. At first Joana thought that no one would take any notice of either of them, and she smiled at the thought of how everyone would have stopped at least to take notice if she were dressed as the marquesa. Oh, yes, they would, she thought, even if every sign about her indicated that something of great significance was about to happen.
But finally they were admitted to the presence of Lord Fitzroy Somerset, Lord Wellington’s chief secretary, and he nodded to Captain Blake and expressed his satisfaction at his safe return, and he smiled at Joana despite her appearance and made her a courtly bow and offered her a chair.
“His lordship will be pleased to see and hear from both of you,” he said. “But not today, I am afraid. You will understand, Captain, that there are a thousand demands on every moment of his time. Ma’am, your companion insisted that a room be reserved here for your convenience. A trunk of yours is there, I believe. I shall have you escorted there.”
“That cannot happen, I am afraid,” Captain Blake said stiffly. “The Marquesa das Minas is my prisoner, sir. She was taken as a hostage from Salamanca and has been in my custody ever since. She is or has been a French agent.”
Lord Somerset’s eyes looked to Joana in some surprise and she smiled dazzlingly at him. “I think perhaps, my lord,” she said, “we should become the thousand and first demand on Arthur’s time.”
25
SHE did not want it to be this way. She did not want him to discover the truth in front of other people, least of all Viscount Wellington. Arthur would look through him with those piercing eyes of his and explain the truth in a few succinct words, and Robert would be humiliated—a British spy who had made such a foolish mistake. She did not want him to be humiliated.
She should have forced the truth on him when they were alone together, she thought. She could have done it if she had set her mind to it and if it had not been so delightfully amusing to lead him astray. She could have done it at Mortagoa, with Duarte and Carlota to back her story. Instead of which she had allowed them to play along with her. How dreadful she was.
Lord Wellington really was very busy, it seemed. Lord Somerset took them into a more private room, and she seated herself with all the grace she would have shown if she were dressed in her marquesa’s finery—it was amazing how one reverted to habit when one’s environment changed—while Robert stood stiffly, his back half to her, telling the secretary all about her. She frowned when Lord Somerset’s eyes strayed to her, and she rubbed a finger across her lips, silencing his comments.
“My lord,” she said, getting to her feet when Robert had finished his story, aware that her regal bearing and manner must seem remarkably ridiculous when combined with her wild and rather ragged appearance, “I believe Captain Blake is eager to return to his regiment. He has given enough of his time to guarding me. Perhaps you have a moment to convey me to my room. You will, of course, set a suitably strong guard outside it until Arthur can deal with me himself.”
Perhaps he need not know at all. Not yet, at least.
“That would seem to be the best idea,” Lord Somerset said, frowning. “Wait here, Captain Blake, if you please.”
She swept from the room ahead of the secretary. Robert was still standing in the middle of the room, like a marble statue, looking away from her. They did not even exchange a good-bye.
“Joana?” Lord Somerset spoke as soon as the door was closed behind him. “Your deception was so good that Captain Blake still does not know the truth?”
She turned to smile brightly and apologetically at him. “Oh, I did tell him,” she said, “but he did not believe me and I did not insist that he lay to rest his doubts. It was too amusing to foster them, I’m afraid. He must not know, Fitzroy. It would be too dreadfully mortifying for him.” But it was so hard to smile when she felt as if her heart was breaking.
As fortune would have it, a distant door opened at that moment to reveal a flurry of voices, and Viscount Wellington himself strode into the long corridor in which they stood, three aides hurrying after him. He stopped.
“Ah, Joana,” he said, his eyes sweeping her keenly from head to toe, “you are safely back, are you? That is a relief to know. I had heard, of course, that you were safely out of Spain. And events have proved that you must have been successful there. Captain Blake is safe too?”
“Yes,” she said, “and itching to return to his regiment, Arthur.”
“You must leave without delay,” he said. “Before nightfall. This is going to be too dangerous a spot for a lady by tomorrow.”
“I thrive in dangerous spots,” she said with a smile.
“But not this one,” he said. “I shall get someone to escort you to safety. Fitzroy, look to it, will you? Send Blake. He deserves something of a break from active duty.”
“Captain Blake believes—” Lord Somerset began, but Joana laid a hand lightly on his sleeve and smiled her most dazzling smile.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “I will not argue, Arthur, as I can see that you are dreadfully busy. Fitzroy will get Robert to escort me to Lisbon.”
Lord Wellington nodded briskly and hurried on his way, his aides close at his heels. Joana stared after him for a moment before drawing a deep breath and turning back to Lord Somerset, her smile still firmly in place.
“You must be frantically busy too, Fitzroy,” she said, her hand still on his sleeve, “and wishing me a thousand miles away. Let us return to Robert and tell him of his new assignment. But I shall do the talking. Will you bear me out?”
“Certainly,” he said, and he turned back to the room they had just vacated and opened the door. She preceded him through it.
Captain Blake was standing where they had left him, staring fixedly at the floor. He looked up at the opening of the door and his eyes met Joana’s blankly. He looked as hard as nails, she thought, as if he were quite incapabl
e of any human feeling. He looked like the quintessential soldier.
“We ran into Arthur in the hallway,” she said with a sigh. “Literally ran into him. He was very vexed with me, Robert, but of course he has no time to deal with me today and no soldiers to be spared to guard me.” She smiled. “It seems that I am a prisoner whom no one wants. What a dreadful fate! I thought I would be hailed as the most dangerous spy of the wars and put on public display surrounded by a score of guards all armed to the teeth or something like that. It is quite lowering to find I am nothing but a nuisance. You are to keep me tight and safe, it seems, until this battle is over.”
“Joana—” Lord Somerset said. But she swung around to face him and widened her smile.
“Oh, you need not be apologetic, Fitzroy,” she said. “It was a good game while it lasted. And Captain Blake will look after me as well as he has done since we left Salamanca. I am quite sure he will not let me escape, alas. You may go about your business. I know you are anxious to do so.”
He looked at her frowningly for a few moments, hesitated, and then nodded curtly to both of them and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Joana turned and smiled at Captain Blake. “I am sorry, Robert,” she said. “You must be wishing me in perdition.”
He still looked like granite, standing in the middle of the room, staring at her. “Lord Wellington has not made arrangements to send you back to safety?” he asked.
“He knows I will be safe with you,” she said. “But I will not be a burden to you, Robert, you will see. I know that you want nothing more than to return to your company now and prepare them and yourself for tomorrow’s battle—I believe it really is going to be tomorrow, is it not? You shall do that, and I shall sit quietly in your tent—do you have a tent? If not, then I shall sit quietly on the ground, and I shall spend tomorrow with the other women at the rear. What do you say? Are you very vexed?”
He stared at her for a few silent moments. “Bloody hell!” he said finally.
