A Soldier's Bride
The Duke's Alliance
Book Five
By
Fenella J Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of The Author - Fenella J. Miller
The Duke's Alliance, A Soldier's Bride © Copyright Fenella J. Miller, 2018
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
COVER DESIGN BY JANE DIXON-SMITH
Part One – Spain
Chapter One
Spain, July 1813
Lord Peregrine Sheldon left the tent of Major Robertson pleased with his orders. He had returned from a successful mission as an intelligence officer, the polite term for a spy, behind the enemy lines last week and had been kicking his heels since then waiting to know what his next task was.
His orderly greeted him with a raised eyebrow. 'Where to next, my lord?'
'We've to rendezvous with a group of partisans in the mountains and together come up with a plan of attack to coincide with Wellington's intentions.'
This was somewhat vague but he knew better than to reveal more than he needed to, even though he trusted his man implicitly. O'Reilly might be an Irishman, but he was totally loyal to the cause.
'When do we leave?'
'Immediately. I take it our gear is packed?'
O'Reilly nodded. 'It's been ready for days, so it has.'
When Perry had bought his colours, he had thought he would be in the cavalry; but because of his ability to speak both Spanish and French fluently he had immediately been transferred to the intelligence service. He had been disappointed to be denied the thrill of a battle but had soon come to love his work. He had more than enough excitement and danger and was answerable to no one whilst he was away from the army.
He would have preferred to wear his uniform and rely on the speed and stamina of his horse to gallop him out of trouble like an exploring officer – but his missions were to blend into the countryside as a wine merchant seeking new supplies and not be recognised as a member of the armed forces.
There was always activity in this large tented city of soldiers. Wellington was a brilliant commander and constantly sending out companies to harry the French who were retreating steadily towards their own country. Perry was confident they would be able to break through the fortresses, entrenchments and fortified villages between here and the French border before the winter took hold.
He left the acres of tents, the thousands of soldiers, behind without a second thought. He was, of course, out of uniform and carried no military identification in case he was captured. However, he carried maps with vineyards marked on the paper in the hope this would prove his credentials.
If a French skirmisher or scout were to see him through a spyglass they should not be alarmed or alerted to his real purpose. He did in fact stop and take note of any wine producers and also placed orders with a couple. That was why he carried so much gold. They camped in a hollow and whilst his companion prepared their food he reviewed his route.
There was no urgency to his mission as the army was still weeks away from being battle-ready. This meant he could meander about the countryside calling in at any vineyards whilst looking out for French companies and any sign of the Spanish partisans he was to liaise with.
The heat was unbearable during the afternoon so they always pitched camp in the shade and close to water if possible. They didn't carry fodder for the horses so they must always find a place with grass for the beasts to eat.
Sultan, his black gelding, had been selected especially for his ability to thrive on poor commons. O'Reilly's horse had been purchased in Portugal and, although not especially handsome, he was sturdy and equally at home in the mountains as he was in an army camp.
The next few days were spent in similar fashion and he saw nothing untoward – no French troops at all. He avoided the villages even though they were usually friendly, no point in drawing attention to himself unless he had to.
They were slowly climbing the foothills and must be nearing their destination. It was cooler in the mountains which was a blessing. Ten days after leaving the army O'Reilly, who had been scouting ahead, returned in a rush.
'Frenchies, a platoon of cavalry, is heading this way. They don't look none too friendly, sir, battle-hardened and nasty looking lot, so they are.'
'Then we had better make ourselves scarce. Thank God we have not pitched camp yet. We'll lead the horses, we can hide up there behind those rocks.'
'Go on, sir, I'll remove any sign of our being here and then follow you up, so I will.'
The gelding followed him without hesitation – another thing in the horse's favour. It was unusual to find a horse so biddable. The loose scree tumbled down behind them making a damnable racket and he hoped it wasn't loud enough to attract the attention of the French cavalry.
'Come along, old fellow, almost there.' He pulled the reins again and the horse obediently heaved his bulk onto the narrow shelf of rock. Perry led the animal behind the rocks and was satisfied they could not be seen from below.
There was sufficient space for the two horses and men to wait in relative comfort until it was safe to descend. Going down might be considerably more difficult than ascending, but he would trust his horse to find his own way back without breaking his neck.
There was the sudden crack of a rifle. Then the unmistakable sound of a dozen horses travelling at speed in this direction. He daren't investigate as any movement might attract attention to his position.
O'Reilly hadn't had time to join him. He sent a fervent prayer to the Almighty, not something he often did, that his orderly had managed to get away. The French cavalry thundered past below, they were obviously in pursuit of a quarry and he knew it must be his companion they were after.
His breath hissed through his teeth. At least he knew his man hadn't been killed by the rifle shot. If fortune favoured him the Irishman might escape unscathed and they would be able to meet up again at some point.
He remained where he was for another hour and then went to investigate. There was no sign of O'Reilly and he hoped that was a good sign. The problem now was that he had little food and nothing with which to make a camp. This had all been carried by his orderly.
He slithered down the slope and then turned and whistled. Sultan responded and somehow managed to pick his way down without mishap. The fact that there was a roving troop of French cavalry in the area meant he must move in the opposite direction. The meeting with the partisans was more important than searching for his missing companion.
After two days he was higher in the mountains and certain he was undetected. However, either O'Reilly had been killed or captured as his man hadn't caught up with him despite the fact that he was travelling slowly.
On the third day he was searching for somewhere suitable to stop overnight and came across a small clearing with a crystal-clear stream trickling down the cliff face and lush grass growing for his horse. He had finished his rations the day before, but as long as he could continue to drink his fill he would be able to travel for another few days.
There was an opening to a cave just above where he intended to camp. He gave it a cursory glance and then ignored it. Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up. There was something moving just above him. He scarcely had time to gl
ance up and see a mountain lion about to pounce. Sultan, who was grazing quietly just below the cave, threw up his head and bolted.
Perry screamed at him, but the horse was too terrified to listen and his panicked gallop sent him towards the edge of the ravine. He managed to grab the horse's tail but was too late to prevent the inevitable. They both fell headlong into the ravine.
Perry opened his eyes but could see nothing. Either it was the middle of the night or he had become inexplicably blind. He ached all over, there wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt after his catastrophic fall. How could he have been so stupid? He should have checked before letting his horse graze directly below the lair of a huge cat. How long had he been here? Was it a night or day?
He raised his hand slowly and traced his fingers over his face. They came away sticky. It could only be blood. He flexed each limb in turn and although stiff and sore they functioned reasonably well. If he was blind because of his accident then he might as well be dead. In fact, a broken leg would be preferable in the circumstances.
He whistled and waited to see if his horse responded. He was pretty sure the poor beast would have perished when they had somersaulted over the cliff edge. He tried again, and again nothing. He could taste the salty, metallic tang of his own blood. If he was to have any hope of surviving he must try and stem the flow coming from his head.
After blinking he could still see nothing. His eyes could swivel but they weren't functioning. He would just have to pray it was temporary, caused by banging his head, and he would gradually regain his sight over the next few hours.
At least he had fallen into the shade and wasn't being boiled alive by the merciless sun. He pushed himself onto his elbows and regretted it. He flopped back as an excruciating pain ripped through his head. He left it for a while and then attempted to sit up a second time. Same result, only this time he cast up his accounts. Then merciful blackness enveloped him.
*
Sofia had completed her patrol of the region and was satisfied there were no filthy Frenchmen lurking anywhere. Papa had been an English cartographer employed by the British Army but had been killed two years ago. She and Mama had been taken in by some Spanish villagers. She now considered these partisans her family and was only too happy to be included in the patrols.
As she was about to turn her horse and head back to the village her horse shied and she lost a stirrup.
'What is it? What has disturbed you?'
She patted the animal's neck and he calmed beneath her touch. She decided to investigate. Perhaps a goat had become stuck in the ravine and needed her assistance. These animals ranged freely but still belonged to someone or other in the village and were therefore her responsibility.
She dismounted and tethered Pedro to a convenient branch. 'Wait here, boy, I shan't be long.'
Once, when she had been on a patrol in the early days, she had made the almost fatal error of not taking the correct precautions before going to investigate a suspect noise. If it hadn't been for Carlos the French soldier would have shot her. Instead, the Frenchman had had his throat slit. It had taken her several weeks to recover from this shocking episode but now she was more resilient.
So far, she had not had to stab or shoot anyone herself, she wasn't sure she would be able to do it, but she carried a knife and a pistol and knew how to use both. She had also seen three other bodies and thought herself immune to such sights.
She pulled out the pistol from the holster attached to her saddle – she rode astride as everyone did in the mountains – cocked and primed it just in case – before making her way to the edge so she could look over and see what had scared her horse.
Her lips curved at the thought of what her grandmama, Lady Amanda Appleby, would say if she could see her now. Gently bred young ladies were expected to dress in pretty muslins, ride side-saddle, and be subservient to the gentlemen of the family. She glanced down at her man's garb, shirt, waistcoat, breeches and riding boots. Her hair was worn in a braid which hung down her back.
When the war was over and the French had been driven from Spain and Portugal it was possible Mama would wish to return to England – but she doubted it. She rather thought she was about to have a Spanish stepfather – the leader of the small town, Carlos's father, was definitely interested in marriage.
She dropped to her knees and then peered over the edge. She almost toppled head first so great was her shock. There was a magnificent horse lying dead at the bottom of the ravine and a few yards away was the rider and he looked in little better case. Then she saw his hand move. He was alive and definitely not a Frenchman. Although he wasn't in uniform she recognised his clothes as coming from an English tailor.
However much she wanted to she could not get down to aid the injured man. She would have to go back and bring her comrades and some rope. She prayed the young man survived long enough to be rescued. His head was matted with blood and he was pale as a ghost beneath the gore.
It took scarcely a quarter of an hour to gallop home and her arrival attracted the attention she had hoped. She tumbled from the saddle and explained the reason for her precipitous entrance.
'We must get back there immediately. I fear the young man might have bled out before we reach him.'
Her mother handed her the haversack in which were the necessary items to deal with the injury. 'Are you quite sure he is not a Frenchman, my love?'
'I am, Mama, the ravine is not so deep I could not recognise the cut of his clothes. His horse was English too, a great shame it perished in the fall.'
Outside the men had gathered the necessary ropes. Carlos tossed her into the saddle. 'Sofia, lead the way and we shall follow.'
They travelled as speedily as she had and she pointed to the cliff edge. 'He's down there. I think it no more than seven or eight yards so it should not be too difficult bringing him out.'
Carlos strode to the edge and looked down before answering. 'The man's still alive. As long as he has no broken bones or damage to his insides raising him should not injure him further.'
'Lower me down first so I can attend to his head wound before you move him.'
No one argued with her suggestion and the rope was passed around her waist and knotted firmly. She then stepped off the edge and inched her way down using the rope to support her. She dropped to her knees beside the man and gently shook his shoulder.
'What is your name? We have come to help you. Try and stay awake it will aid your recovery.'
The man groaned and his eyelids flickered then opened. For a few seconds they were unfocused then he managed a half-smile. She bent down in order to hear his whispered words.
'English girl? I had my Spanish ready.'
'I am Spanish by adoption. Keep talking to me whilst I attend to your wound.'
She couldn't clean it here, that would have to be done when she got him home. The injury ran across his forehead just above his eyebrows. It would need suturing, this was something she was adept at and would present her with no problem. She pressed a clean pad of cloth across the gash and then quickly bound it tight. Hopefully, this would stop further loss of blood.
'Can you move your limbs? Do you have any other injuries?'
'Nothing broken but I am blind. I pray that this is temporary.'
'I will know more when I have examined you and cleaned you up. It's possible your loss of sight is nothing permanent but merely caused by the force with which you hit your head.'
There was a noxious pile of vomit to one side which indicated he had probably sustained a serious concussion. The fact that he was conscious and able to converse coherently was a good sign. Although she had sounded positive about his vision in fact she was not so sanguine. Only time would tell if this young English gentleman would ever see again.
His eyes were the hue of cornflowers, she had no notion what colour his hair was beneath the blood. He could be fair or dark – but it was no concern of hers.
Carlos and two others landed beside her. 'He's ready to mov
e. You must be very careful with his head as he has sustained a serious injury and further damage could be fatal.'
She stepped aside and allowed the men to gently tie the rope under the Englishman's shoulders. They were used to working together and had no need to exchange words in order to get the job done. Carlos looked up and waved and the two men remaining above disappeared.
The ropes would have been attached to one of the horses and they would be guiding it backwards. The rope taughtened and slowly the patient was pulled to his feet. He was taller by a head than any of the partisans and his shoulders were broad. He was a fine figure of a man and she hoped he recovered and was able to return to his position with Wellington. That he was attached to the English army she had no doubt. Why else would he be wandering around the foothills?
Her rope also straightened and she was able to travel up beside him and keep his head from knocking against the cliff. He had passed out again which was probably a blessing in the circumstances. Transporting him to the village was going to be difficult but Carlos was used to returning with injured men after skirmishes with the French. Therefore, she was confident they would be able to complete this mission successfully.
They could hardly hang him across the saddle as they would a corpse or a prisoner – therefore, she would have to think of something else as she doubted he could remain in the saddle even with someone riding behind him.
The men were ahead of her and had already constructed a rudimentary sledge upon which to place him. This could then be dragged behind a horse. Fortunately, the track to the village was downhill most of the way and relatively smooth.
They had used her mount, which was sensible, as she intended to walk beside the patient. He remained comatose and she was becoming concerned for him. The sooner he was back and attended to the happier she would be.
Chapter Two
Portugal September 1813
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