Falconbridge looked across at Sabrina. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl.’
His smile gave her fresh courage and she returned it. ‘I was never in a battle before.’
‘When you shoot, aim for the widest part of the man’s body. Make each shot count.’
‘I will.’
He nodded and then turned his attention back to the task in hand. They needed to lower the odds before the French reached their position and they were reduced to hand-to-hand combat. He tried not to think about what would happen then; tried not to think about Sabrina and Jacinta run through by French sabres, and his men slain. Soldiers accepted the risks of warfare, but women were another matter. He knew he would defend them to the death, but would that be enough? Lining up his target he squeezed off another shot. A man yelled, clutching his arm. Falconbridge smiled grimly and reloaded.
Sabrina crouched behind a rock, pistol drawn. With pounding heart she risked a peek round the edge of the sheltering stone and saw blue-coated figures only fifty yards away. Soon they would be overrun. Her jaw tightened. This was no time for cowardice. If she went down, it would be fighting. Glancing at her companions, she knew there was no company she would rather die in.
A blue-coat rose up from behind a rock. Without thinking she lifted the pistol, aimed and fired. The man cried out and pitched backwards. Hurriedly, she reached for ball and powder to reload. Beside her Jacinta loosed off a shot of her own. Somewhere nearby a man cursed. Around them the air thickened with smoke and the acrid scent of powder. They heard Willis swear and clutch his sleeve. Blood welled through his fingers. Sabrina shoved the pistol in her belt and dropped into a crouching run, reaching him a few moments later.
‘How bad is it?’
‘Just a crease, ma’am,’ he said between gritted teeth.
‘Hold still. I’ll bind it for you.’
She improvised a bandage from a handkerchief and neckcloth and tied it firmly. He smiled his thanks. Then retrieving his rifle, he reloaded. A blue-coated figure loomed above their crouching figures. Sabrina saw the shadow and looked up in horrified surprise. Her throat dried. She had a fleeting impression of the raised sword before a shot rang out and the man slumped. She spun round to see the smoking rifle in Falconbridge’s hands, and swallowed hard, her gaze meeting his for a moment. The expression in his eyes sent a shiver through her; it was utterly uncompromising, the look of a man who would kill to defend his own. She stammered out her thanks and saw him nod.
‘My pleasure.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a blur of movement and turned in horror to see that the vanguard of the French force had reached the top of the knoll. Falconbridge followed her gaze and his jaw tightened. Letting fall the rifle he drew his sword and launched himself into the attack, fighting now for all he held dear. He felt the blade connect with flesh; heard a cry and saw his opponent slump. Moments later another took his place. Again Falconbridge was on the offensive, keeping up the momentum, not giving his enemy even a moment to pause, using every means at his disposal to win. Finesse had no part in this; it was fierce and dirty with fists and boots supplementing steel.
Just a few feet away Sabrina drew her own blade and prepared to meet the nearest foe. The Frenchman’s face registered surprise and then amusement as he took in the nature of his opponent. The hesitation cost him dear as the edge of her sword slashed his arm. Blood bloomed through the torn fabric. For a split second he stared at the wound in outrage and disbelief. Then his expression hardened and he pressed forward his attack. She fought as well as she knew how but determined resistance wasn’t enough. Superior skill and strength forced her into retreat, step by step, until her back slammed against stone. Trapped against a boulder with no room to manoeuvre she knew she was lost. The Frenchman smiled. Sickened she watched him raise the blade for the coup de grâce.
And then, before her terrified gaze, her opponent checked, his face a mask of astonishment. The sabre dropped from his fingers and his legs buckled. Jacinta tugged her sword point from between his ribs. For a moment her gaze met Sabrina’s and the dark eyes glowed with inner fire. Then she smiled.
Sabrina found her voice. ‘Thank you.’
‘De nada.’
Before she could say more, an armed figure rose up behind her. Sabrina yelled a warning. Jacinta spun round, but not quickly enough to avoid the swinging rifle. The butt connected with the side of her head and felled her instantly. The assailant stepped across the prone body towards Sabrina. Too late he saw the mouth of the pistol pointing at him. There was a sharp report and he fell, clutching a hole in his chest. However, Sabrina’s attention was no longer on him.
‘Jacinta!’
In a moment she was kneeling beside her companion, desperately trying to rouse her. A bloody gash and a lump testified to the site of the injury. Jacinta groaned. Sabrina felt relief flood back. She wasn’t dead, only stunned. Her frantic gaze cast about for something to staunch the wound with. Then, without warning, she was seized from behind. Strong hands drew her upright. She fought them, kicking and struggling to free herself but the grip was like steel, pinning her arms behind her back and holding them like a vice. Casting a wild look around, she saw with sinking heart that the knoll was overrun and the fighting all but over. Blakelock and Luis were now held at gunpoint. Only Willis and Falconbridge were still engaged in combat but, hopelessly outnumbered, they were driven to stand at bay against a high rock. Then she heard a voice.
‘Throw down your weapons. Further resistance is useless.’
She saw Falconbridge hesitate and for one dreadful moment thought he was going to refuse. Then he glanced around, taking in the whole scene, and nodded to Willis.
‘Do as he says.’
The two men let fall their swords. As they did so the speaker advanced and a French officer strode into her line of vision. With him went the last vestige of hope and her stomach churned as she recognised Machart. For a moment he, too, cast a comprehensive look around. Then his gaze returned to Falconbridge.
‘I was hoping we’d meet again, Monsieur le Comte. Though I think that is not the name by which you were known on the occasion of our first meeting.’ He paused. ‘Arroyo de Molinos, was it not?’
Falconbridge returned the gaze with a cool and insolent stare. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Come now. I admit my memory was faulty at first but I never forget a face,’ the other went on. ‘You have put me to a deal of trouble, monsieur, but I feel certain the effort will be repaid in due course.’ He turned his attention towards Sabrina, his gaze taking in every detail of her altered appearance. His face registered sardonic amusement, though the smile stopped well short of his eyes. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, madame. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’
Her stomach wallowed. She fought it, knowing this man would be very quick to sense fear. With a supreme effort she forced herself to meet his gaze and to remain silent. She would not bandy words with him.
He gestured to his men. ‘Bind the prisoners and fetch their horses.’
‘You are out of your jurisdiction here,’ said Falconbridge, ‘and have no authority to detain us.’
Machart appeared untroubled. ‘I believe I have the authority to apprehend a group of English spies. Of course, if I am mistaken I shall apologise, but I do not think I am mistaken.’
‘Where are you taking us?’
‘To Castillo San Angel, where we shall discuss the matter of identities.’
Sabrina darted a glance at Falconbridge but his expression was impassive and he remained still while they bound his wrists. Then her attention was reclaimed by rough hands binding her own. She made a token gesture of resistance but it was useless. When tested the cords yield not a whit. A few minutes later she and the others were manhandled down the slope and forced to mount their horses. It was then that she realised Jacinta wasn’t with them. Had they left her for dead? Then she remembered w
hat happened to the wounded after a battle, and fear congealed to a lump in her stomach. Perhaps the French had believed her already dead. If Jacinta had been conscious she would have had enough sense to remain quite still. How bad was her injury? There were predators in the mountains other than the human sort. Could she survive out here alone, at least long enough to make it to the nearest village perhaps? If so, there might be hope for her. She was brave and resourceful. If anyone would survive it would be her. At least she was not a prisoner and there was some comfort in that.
The cavalcade set off and her attention refocused on staying in the saddle. The pace was swift and conversation impossible. Besides, Falconbridge was in front of her. Suddenly her fear was all for him. Everyone talks by the third day. She was certain now that Machart would use every means at his disposal to find out what he wanted to know. She had never heard of Castillo San Angel but it bode ill for her and her companions. Where was it exactly?
* * *
They had not long to wait and find out, for in the early evening they came to a small castle, perhaps once the seat of a minor nobleman. Sabrina eyed it uneasily. It seemed to be quite old, judging from the state of the perimeter wall, and an attempt had been made to repair the worst areas of crumbling masonry. The stout timbers of the gate were faded and cracked. As they rode through she could see weeds growing among the stones in the courtyard and the buildings had an air of dilapidation. The place must have been commandeered for use as a military base, she decided. Certainly it held an uncomfortably large number of French troops.
Sabrina and her companions were dragged from the saddle and taken through an archway, along a wide inner corridor and down a flight of stone steps. They found themselves in an underground vault lit by torches. Although it now doubled as a prison, it had originally been intended solely for storage. The dim light revealed barrels and sacks and coils of rope. It was distinctly cool down here, the air musty. Several doors led off the main chamber. Their captors unlocked one of these and she and Falconbridge were shoved into the room beyond; the others taken to the adjoining chamber. Machart paused on the threshold. Then he spoke to his men.
‘Untie their bonds.’
He watched as the order was obeyed. Then he smiled faintly. ‘You see, I am not so unfeeling as to separate a husband and wife. Enjoy each other’s company while you can.’
With that, he and his men withdrew and the door slammed shut behind them. A key turned in the lock. At the sound, Sabrina shivered inwardly. From the passage outside she heard men’s voices and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Automatically she massaged her bruised wrists. Falconbridge frowned.
‘Are you all right, Sabrina? Have they hurt you?’
‘No, I’m unharmed.’
‘Hardly that,’ he replied, looking round. ‘I’m so sorry that I have brought you to this.’
She shook her head. ‘It isn’t your fault.’
‘Who else should bear the blame but I?’
‘You tried to dissuade me from coming along, but I insisted.’
‘I should have moved heaven and earth to prevent it.’
‘It would have made no difference.’
He returned a wry smile. ‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t, at that.’
She glanced around. The room was bare save for a small stool and a rough wooden cot on which lay a sacking mattress filled with straw. It was covered by a dirty blanket. A bucket in one corner served as a privy. A small, barred window set high in the wall was the only source of light. She guessed it corresponded roughly with ground level outside. The only exit was the door, three inches of iron-studded oak.
‘They did not bring Jacinta,’ she said.
Falconbridge frowned and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. In all the confusion he had not noticed the maid’s absence.
‘She was hit on the head with a rifle butt,’ Sabrina continued. ‘I was trying to ascertain the damage when we were overrun.’
‘It may be just a concussion. If so, she will be recovered soon enough.’
‘I pray she will be able to reach help—a village perhaps—though I don’t know how far that might be.’
‘By my estimation we were about ten miles from Burgohondo, but it’s entirely possible she might find a small farmstead en route.’ He paused. ‘Jacinta strikes me as being resourceful. If anyone could survive it would be she.’
‘She is resourceful, and brave, too.’
‘She is not alone in that,’ he replied. ‘I saw you fight back there.’
‘Not too well. Had it not been for you and Jacinta I’d have been run through.’ She hesitated. ‘I have not thanked you properly for saving my life.’
‘I beg you will not mention it.’
‘How can I not when I owe you so much?’
‘You owe me nothing. Comrades look out for each other.’ The words were accompanied by a faint smile. They were also meant to absolve her of obligation and keep their relationship on a professional footing. He was right to do it, she thought, but her dominant emotion was one of sadness.
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
For a moment he scrutinised her in silence. ‘You must be exhausted, Sabrina. Why don’t you try to get some rest?’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m not tired yet,’ he lied. ‘Besides, after the time we’ve spent on horseback it will be good to stand for a while.’
She moved across to the pallet, eyeing it with distaste. The mattress smelt musty and she tried not to think about how old it was or how many other occupants the cot might have had. She stretched out and let her aching muscles relax a little. Beneath veiling lashes she saw Falconbridge move away to the door, glancing out through the narrow metal lattice, apparently deep in thought. Once, she might have found this close confinement intimidating, but now his presence was a comfort. She had not been deceived by his earlier protestations; he, too, must be tired yet he had given up the cot to her use. His manner now could not have been more different from the one she had seen at first. It revealed a gentleness that she would never have suspected then.
Unbidden, Machart’s face returned and with it, his words. Enjoy each other’s company while you can. She shivered, trying not to think of the implication behind that, or what the morrow might bring. Now more than ever she was glad that Jacinta was free, and Ramon, too. At least the plans were safe and well out of Machart’s grasp, and at the end of it all her father would be delivered from imprisonment. Not a total failure then, she thought.
Falconbridge remained where he was for some time, trying to order his thoughts. He was under no illusions about what lay ahead for him and his men if Machart discovered the truth. Spies were shot. It was a risk one took and while he might regret that matters had not turned out better, he could not be so philosophical where Sabrina was concerned. He could try to appeal to his captor’s sense of honour and ask that she be set free, but suspected that Machart’s notion of honour was not the same as his own. He could plead her youth and innocence if it would do any good.
He glanced at the cot. She lay quite still, eyes closed, her breathing soft and regular. She had never once reproached him for their predicament or shown any fear. His admiration and his regard had grown proportionately. She was indeed the rarest of women. He would have liked to know her better; to court her as a young woman should be courted. It was too late for that now, but he would no longer try to deny the depth of feeling she inspired in him; a feeling he had never expected to experience again.
He sighed and crossed quietly to the sleeping figure. Reaching for the blanket, he opened it out and laid it over her. Although it was only a meagre covering, it was better than nothing, for the air was cool down here. Then he sat down on the stool and watched her sleep. Her face looked very peaceful, the expression untroubled as though she had not a care in the world. He knew that face so well now, every line and curve. Its beauty haunted his dreams. Clarissa had been beautiful, but her beauty was of a different kind. Sabrina’s owed nothing to artif
ice of any sort. She would be lovely when she was fifty—if she lived so long. His jaw tightened. If by some miracle they got out of this with a whole skin he would make it his mission to ensure nothing harmed her again.
* * *
At some point he must have dozed because he came to with a start. His neck and limbs felt stiff. It was darker now and the only light a faint ruddy glow through the lattice from the torch-lit corridor outside. He got to his feet and straightened slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. A glance at the bed revealed that Sabrina was sleeping still, though more restlessly now, huddled beneath the thin blanket. He reached out and touched her hand lightly. The skin was cold. He saw her shiver, and roll onto her side, drawing the cover closer. As he saw it, he knew there was one useful service he could perform.
He lay down beside her and curled his body protectively around hers, holding her close, sharing his warmth. She stirred a little but did not wake. He dropped a kiss on her hair and closed his eyes, trying not to think that this might be all they would ever have. However, as the shivering stopped and her warmth returned, the thought persisted. He would have liked to seize the moment and explore in intimate detail every curve of the body pressed so close to his; to know her in every sense of the word. There was a spark; it would not take much to fan it to a flame. If he did, would she perhaps surrender in the name of some brief, dubious comfort? He sighed. Even if honour had not forbidden it, he cared too much ever to take such blatant advantage.
He slept soon after, weary after the exertions of the day, and woke in the early dawn. Grey light was filtering through the bars in the high window. He glanced at his companion but she was still dead to the world. He smiled faintly. Unwilling to wake her yet, he drew the coverlet a little higher and remained where he was. In truth he did not want this brief intimacy to end. Despite the primitive surroundings it felt good to lie here quietly thus, to hold her in his arms again.
* * *
She began to rouse a little later, surfacing from deep sleep to a comfortable doze, and turned instinctively towards the source of the warmth. He gently kissed her parted lips. She smiled and her mouth yielded to his. The kiss grew deep and lingering. With a supreme and heart-thumping effort of will he drew back. Sabrina opened her eyes and looked into his face.
His Counterfeit Condesa (Historical Romance) Page 15
