“You would feel safer with Will close by, no?” Juana watched her with knowing eyes as she settled her baby in the cradle.
“Yes. I would.” Her whole being trembled with awareness of the danger she was in, and she longed for a protector, a knight to take up her defense. “And you would have Sergeant Reynolds near,” she pointed out.
“It would be very pleasant, but such a thing would never happen.” The baby fussed and stirred, and Juana soothed her.
“I know.” She sighed and looked out the window again. “They must be dreadfully crowded in that barn.”
“Sí. But Will and Dan will manage them. Should I help you dress for dinner, señora?”
“I don’t mean to make you act as my lady’s maid, but I could use some help with the buttons and lacings.”
“Of course, señora.”
“Let me get the dress.” Anna knelt to open her trunk. “I don’t have a great variety, but I cannot go to dinner coated in dust and mud.”
She rifled through her belongings and found a fresh shift, a petticoat, and a pair of stockings, along with the best of her three black dresses. Juana helped her undress, but then tactfully turned aside as Anna removed her shift and washed as best she could.
Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, with her curls tamed into a neat coil at the back of her head, Anna felt better, though she knew she would not draw a peaceful breath until they were free again.
Promptly at the dinner hour Colonel Robuchon came for her. He knocked sharply at the door but stepped in before she or Juana could open it.
“You look magnificent, Madame Arrington,” he said in French. As far as Anna knew, he had no English.
“Merci,” she said coolly. She would act brave and in control, no matter how great her terror.
“Your maid may go to the kitchen and dine with the servants.”
Anna translated this into Spanish. Juana nodded and picked up the baby, but waited until Anna and Colonel Robuchon had stepped into the corridor before leaving the room and shutting the door behind them.
“You are clever with languages, madame.” The colonel tucked her hand more securely into the crook of his elbow. He was a tall, robust man, and he loomed above her.
Normally Anna took pride in her linguistic skills. Her governesses had always made much of her facility for French and Italian, and she knew few in the army who had picked up as much Spanish and Portuguese as she had. But she wanted no praise from Colonel Robuchon.
“You are so silent, madame. Do your quarters displease you? I made sure that you would have a quiet, restful room, far from the bustle of servants or the noise of our officers.”
So he had deliberately chosen to lodge her in the most isolated part of the house. Fear and anger threatened to overwhelm her, and she pushed down the fear and embraced her anger. “The quarters are more than adequate,” she said. “But you cannot expect me to be pleased to be held prisoner.”
“Of course not, madame. But it cannot be helped, so why not accept it? I think you will find our hospitality and our table are all that can be wished for.”
“I fear that is not my way.” She pulled a little further from him.
“Then that is your loss, madame.”
In the dining room, Colonel Robuchon dictated the seating arrangements. He sat at the head of the table and placed her at his right hand, with a callow young lieutenant to his left. Commandant Pelletier sat at the foot, with the surgeons Timperley and Grant at his side.
Neatly separated from her countrymen, Anna said as little as possible. As promised, the food was excellent. Anna recognized it as local staples supplemented with luxuries brought from France. The colonel must keep a fine cook, for she had not tasted anything so elegant as the opening course of leek soup in longer than she could remember. But her appetite had deserted her, and the best she could manage was an occasional desultory sip.
Stone-faced Spanish servants carried in a roast of lamb and set it before the colonel. As he carved her a choice cut, he pressed his leg against hers under the cover of the table. She drew away and shot him a withering look, but he only smiled and stretched his foot to toy with hers. She tucked her feet around the legs of her chair and made determined conversation with her neighbor on her right, a dull but inoffensive captain.
The dinner took hours. Anna continued to pick at her food, torn between gratitude for any delay and a sense that if her doom was inevitable, it would be better to meet it and be done. The summer sun set, night fell, and by the time they had finished with sweets and cheese, the sky was black.
As they stood, Commandant Pelletier bowed to Anna. “Madame Arrington, will you do me the honor of accepting my escort back to your quarters? I have friends in England, and I should like to determine if we share common acquaintances.”
She smiled. “I’d be delighted—”
The colonel cut her off. “Thank you, Pelletier, but that can wait. Tonight I’ll see to the lady.”
The commandant shrugged helplessly and Mr. Timperley frowned. “If you please, Colonel,” he said, “I need to speak with Mrs. Arrington about a medical matter, so perhaps it would be best if I saw her to her quarters.”
“Monsieur Timperley, your most important patient is Capitaine Durand. Tonight, you will stay with him.”
Timperley stalked to the window and frowned out into the night. No one else would meet her eyes. Her defenders were feeble and she was alone. She wondered what they would do if she screamed and refused to leave. Probably confine her to her quarters as a madwoman, and she’d be no safer.
Colonel Robuchon’s gray eyes glittered with veiled triumph as he offered her his arm. She ground her teeth together. She would not yield without a fight.
They walked down the long corridor back to her room in silence. She halted outside the closed door and summoned her courage. She would try to brazen this out.
“Thank you for an excellent dinner, Colonel. And now, I bid you good evening.” She met his eyes and willed him to back down.
“Ah, madame, but the night is still young.” He opened the door and pushed past her into the room.
Juana, who sat in one of the chairs crooning a lullaby to her baby, sprang to her feet.
“Allez!” he ordered, pointing toward the door.
That much French needed no translation. Juana shook her head. “I must stay with my mistress.”
Lightning-fast, the colonel seized Anna’s arm, dragged her through the doorway and flung her against the bed. She staggered but stayed on her feet. Dropping her arm, he crossed to Juana and cuffed her across the face.
“Woman, if you do not leave this instant, I will do that and more to your baby.” He pointed at the child and shook his fist.
Juana darted a wild look at Anna.
“Go,” she said.
Her face anguished, Juana took her baby in her arms and ran from the room.
Anna gathered her strength and calculated the gap between Colonel Robuchon and the door. She launched herself forward and almost made it. But his arm shot out and caught her around the waist as he kicked the door closed. He twisted her about until he held her by both forearms.
“Unhand me this instant,” she hissed. “Is this how the French treat ladies?”
“Madame, you have two choices. You may yield, and it will go easier for you. Or you may fight, and suffer the consequences. It is your choice.”
She spat. It hit his chin.
“So be it, madame.” Deliberately he wiped his chin clean, then slapped her so hard she tasted blood and her vision blurred.
He threw her against the bed. She fought desperately with fists, feet and teeth. It was hopeless, and she knew it, but she refused to make this easy for him. She felt her dress tear and redoubled her efforts. He kissed her, brutal and punishing, and she bit his lip, tasted his blood and spat again.
Chapter Eight
Night. Seventy restless, crowded men couldn’t go to sleep at sunset, so the riflemen—all coatless, some shirtless in the st
ale air—sat assembled singing defiant songs and telling raucous tales. Will sat with Dan near the door and watched. The men were doing well enough on their own for now. He hoped the same was true of Mrs. Arrington.
Noise and bustle at the door caught Will’s attention, and he turned toward it.
It was Juana, frantic and wild-eyed, clutching her wailing baby to her chest. She pleaded with the guards in a mixture of Spanish and English, gesturing wildly with her free hand. After a moment, they let her in. Will and Dan exchanged glances, got to their feet and met her.
“What is it, love?” Dan asked, enclosing her and the baby in a comforting embrace.
“The colonel, he threw me out. He means to force her, I know he does. I—I tried to stay, but he said he would hurt the baby, and—”
“Shh. You did all you could—Will, have you gone mad?”
Two guards. A shadowy barn lit by a single torch, pitch-black night beyond. One man could slip through, if the guards’ attention were elsewhere.
Moving slowly so as not to draw their notice, he picked up his jacket and slid his arms into the sleeves. In his white shirt alone, he’d be too easy to spot in the darkness.
“Will!”
He leaned over and spoke in Dan’s ear. “If I don’t come back, look after the men,” he muttered.
“Of course, but—you can’t help her. There’s no use.”
“I’m not going to let her be raped!”
“You’ll just get yourself killed instead!”
He ignored Dan and caught the eyes of the nearest riflemen. Robertson and Flaherty were clever lads. They’d do.
“I need a diversion,” he said, low and urgent.
“Sergeant?” Flaherty raised his eyebrows.
“Distract the goddamned guards.”
Comprehension dawned, and the pair studied each other for a moment. Then Robertson said something unforgivable about Flaherty’s mother and Irishwomen in general. With a shout, Flaherty hit him.
Within seconds it was a miniature brawl, with all the men who weren’t fighting cheering the combatants on.
The guards turned toward the commotion and looked at each other uncertainly. It was all the opening Will needed. He slid along the wall to the door, slipped out and ran toward the house. He pictured the window where Mrs. Arrington and Juana had stood that afternoon—second from the end, on the right.
He paused for just an instant at the closed shutters. At the sound of a desperate struggle his fury redoubled. He pushed the shutters open and climbed through.
Neither Mrs. Arrington nor the colonel noticed his entrance. Colonel Robuchon had her pinned on the bed, her skirts rucked up past her knees, but she fought still, kicking and clawing and twisting.
There! Protruding from the colonel’s belt was a pistol. Will stepped across the room, seized it and clubbed the larger man across the temple with its butt.
The colonel collapsed atop her, out cold. Will set the pistol on the bed, dragged him upright and threw him to the floor.
Mrs. Arrington levered herself up on her elbows, panting for breath. She looked dazed and pale, her lips swollen, an angry slap mark welting her left cheek. She blinked at him. “Will.”
She clutched her torn dress, dragging her skirts down and pulling the black fabric up to cover her white petticoat and the pale skin around her collarbone. Gingerly she slid off the bed and paced around the room. She breathed carefully, her hands clenched in tight fists. He longed to shelter her in his arms, but doubted she could bear the touch of any man just now.
She stopped and faced him, chin held high. “Will,” she said again, her voice almost normal, though he had to assume if she’d truly been herself she would’ve called him Sergeant Atkins. “Thank you. I can never thank you enough.”
Before he could speak, her gaze slid to the limp figure on the floor at his feet, and that proved her undoing. Her eyes widened, and she shuddered convulsively. She wobbled on her feet and dropped to her knees.
He knelt before her and held out his arms, offering his body for comfort if she wanted it.
She swayed against him, her arms winding tight around his shoulders. He enfolded her to him and pressed his cheek against her hair, murmuring inarticulate comforts.
When her breathing had steadied, he loosened her grip and held her far enough away that he could meet her eyes. “Shh. It’s all right. It’s over.” He glanced at the colonel’s slack face. Was that a bite mark on his lip? “You fought well.”
He felt a tremor run through her. “I had to. I knew I had no chance but I had to…I couldn’t let—”
She shook her head over and over again. She was near to shattering, and he couldn’t allow that. He had rescued her for the moment, but they needed all their wits about them if they were to remain safe the next day or even the next hour.
He caught her chin in his hand as gently as if she were made of eggshell. It worked; she took a deep breath and watched him with steady, alert eyes.
He studied her upturned face in the flickering candlelight. “You’ll bear the marks tomorrow, too, I’m afraid.”
“Tomorrow.” She turned from him, and her brow furrowed. “You can’t be here. They’ll kill you.”
She saw it, then. “We must escape.”
“We?”
“You can’t stay, either. He’ll be furious—he’ll not leave you alone.” He hadn’t realized it until after he’d acted, but their lots were cast together. They must both flee, or his rescue was meaningless and would make her eventual suffering and humiliation worse. He hated to leave the company behind, though he trusted Dan to manage the men. They understood what they were facing in Colonel Robuchon, and that knowledge would keep them on their guard and, Will hoped, safe. And it wasn’t as though he could do anything more for them now.
He and Mrs. Arrington were already too much to each other. Escaping together would only strengthen their dangerous bond. But it had to be done, or he would face an executioner and she a rapist.
“And with you gone, no one else will defend me.” She shook her head, this time a controlled, deliberate gesture. “Will, why did you do it?”
“I couldn’t not.”
“I’m…I could never thank…” She shut her eyes hard, gripped his sleeves, and took a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “But I’m afraid if I come with you, I’ll slow you down.”
She might be right. She was a lady, used to riding while men such as he walked. And yet she was healthy and strong, at least as much so as any raw private. That was the way to do it—if he treated her as much like a soldier as their differences of sex and station allowed, if he at once made her believe she could keep up and expected her to do so, she would. She certainly didn’t lack for courage. “How long have you been with the army?” he asked.
“Two years.”
“A seasoned campaigner. Have you got good boots?”
“Almost new.”
“You’ll keep up. Best change your dress, though,” he said gruffly.
With a blush she tugged up her torn bodice. “Of course.” She pushed free of his arms and got to her feet, turning her back to him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t reach all the buttons.”
He stood and with steady fingers made short work of the row of buttons. Under any other circumstances it would have been the most physically charged moment of his life. But with her would-be rapist at their feet and the urgency of flight upon them, how much he wanted her hardly mattered. Of course she was still thoroughly covered up—her petticoat and shift took care of that. Yet there was a beauty and vulnerability about her that gave him a catch in his throat, as she stood there in simple white linen, with her black curls tumbling in disarray over the nape of her neck.
“Thank you,” she said. She crossed to her trunk, knelt, and delved into it. As she pulled out a stack of undergarments, she stopped and looked up at him, her eyes alight with vengeful inspiration. “Here.” She tossed him a petticoat and several stockings. “Tie him up and gag him, so if he awakens, h
e can’t cry out.”
He grinned at her. “Clever woman.”
While Mrs. Arrington changed into another black dress, Will tore the petticoat into strips, gagged the colonel and bound him head and foot. He made a thorough job of it and tied him to the bedpost for good measure. Then he took the pistol and found that it wasn’t loaded. Would the colonel have ammunition on him? Will checked his belt and discovered that he did. He took the ammunition pouch and secured it and the pistol to his own belt. Any weapon was better than nothing, but he would’ve preferred a rifle. A pistol had such a short range, and he didn’t know this one’s tricks.
When he was done, Mrs. Arrington waited at his side. “With any luck, no one will miss him till breakfast,” he said. “I made the knots tight. If he does wake up, he’ll be in pain.”
“Good.” She was controlled now, cool and fierce. She stared down at the colonel for a long moment. Then, she didn’t quite kick him but gave him a shove with one foot.
Turning to Will, she deflated a little. “Would you help with my buttons again? It’s really ridiculous, that a woman cannot so much as dress without aid.”
“Maybe I’ll set up as a lady’s maid when the war is over,” he said lightly as he complied.
She matched his tone. “How are you with styling hair and mending hems?”
He smiled as he fastened the final button. “I’d be ham-handed with curling tongs, but I’ve been mending my uniforms for years.”
“In that case I’d be happy to give you a reference to any lady with natural curls.” She turned to face him, and her expression grew sober. “What now?”
She trusted him, so he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was making up his plan as he went along.
“We find our way past the sentries and get as far from here as we can before dawn. Then we hide until they give up looking for us and walk back to our army.”
“That sounds simple enough,” she said bravely. “Do we have a chance?”
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