by Carla Kelly
Polly glanced back to see the rest of the troopers following the Corporal. Her horse was flecked with foam by the time she came to another ford where the bank gradually inclined to a sandy beach. Throwing herself off her horse, she gestured to the Corporal, who dismounted, too.
‘Can you swim?’ she shouted.
He returned a blank stare, and she realised she was speaking in English. She repeated her question in French, and he shook his head.
It’s up to me, then, she thought. Oh, I don’t like adventures. She handed him the end of the rope tied around her waist, and told him to hang on tight as she went into the stream, recoiling in shock from the cold, and then struggling to stand upright.
The water came up to her chest and the current knocked her over. She struggled to her feet again, then looked at the bank, where the troopers had dismounted and were helping the Corporal with the rope.
Falling and rising several times, and encouraged by the troopers on shore, Polly fought her way to the middle of the stream where the water boiled around a significant boulder. She heaved herself against the protecting rock, letting it anchor her, gratified to see the rope stretching almost taut as the troopers pulled just enough to keep it level, but not to yank her into the stream.
Eyes anxious, she watched for the men. Please, Hugh, she thought, please, Hugh. It was not coherent or profound, but as she said his name over and over, she realised there was nothing she would not do for this man. He was no longer a Colonel, a Marine, a man she had only met a few months ago. Proper or not, their trials had bound them together tighter than a trussed Christmas goose. He owed her no more than she owed him.
She waited there, her teeth chattering, as the Colonel and the Sergeant swung around the bend of the river. Hugh quickly saw what she had done, and struck out for the space between her and the bank. He grasped the rope with a waterlogged yell of triumph and clung to it as the troopers on shore dug in against the impact.
The force of two men hitting the rope yanked her into the channel again, as she had known it would. She took a deep breath and clung to the rope as the current pulled her under and then downstream. His face a study in concern, Hugh tried to reach for her. She shook her head, and held up the end of the rope that bound them to shore, so he would not worry.
She had no reason to fear. Gradually, the troopers pulled the three of them towards the shallow bank. It was just a matter of hanging on now, and she had the rope tied around her waist. She watched in relief as the two men crawled ashore and slumped on the sand, then let the troopers pull her ashore. She sank face down beside the Colonel, pillowing her cheek against the sand. The water lapped at her legs still, until one of the troopers gently grasped her under her arms and pulled her higher up on the bank. She put her hand on Colonel Junot’s back, content just to touch him.
When he was breathing evenly again, he heaved himself on to his back and slowly turned his head towards her. ‘Words fail me, Brandon,’ was all he said, as he closed his eyes.
Suddenly terrified, she crawled closer, then straddled him, shaking his shoulders and crying. ‘Don’t you dare die right now!’ she sobbed. ‘We have miles to go!’
She stopped when he grasped her wrists. ‘Polly, dear, I am quite alive.’
She collapsed on top of him then, crying, and not moving until he muttered something about swallowing half of the river, and would she please get off his stomach?
She did as he said, helping him into a sitting position, while he coughed until water dribbled down the front of his checked shirt, torn from his rough passage over rocks and past snags of timber.
She thought of the Sergeant then, but the Corporal was already beside him, turning his leader on to his side as water drained from his mouth. Cadotte opened his eyes and he stared at Colonel Junot in amazement.
‘Mon Dieu, you saved my life,’ he said, when he could talk.
To Polly’s amusement, the matter seemed to embarrass the Colonel. ‘Yes. Well. Of course I did! Do you take me for someone raised by crofters?’
‘But you saved my life,’ the Sergeant repeated. He lay back, exhausted, his head against his Corporal’s leg.
‘Let me assure you, Sergeant Cadotte, I have no love for you at all,’ Hugh said. ‘Not one scrap of affection. But somewhere near Angoulême there are a woman and two children who think you are worth saving. I did it for them.’
With some effort, the Sergeant managed that twitch that passed for a smile. ‘You could have saved yourself some money,’ he countered, still stubborn.
‘I told you I am an officer and a gentleman. Why won’t you believe it?’ Hugh said patiently, as though he spoke to a child. ‘Polly, dear, are you and our little one all right?’
Drat the man. Why did he have to embarrass her? ‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice steely.
He patted her leg, then rested his hand on her thigh, giving her a roguish grin and daring her to take exception to his fond, husbandly gesture. He glanced at Cadotte. ‘I dare you to submit her name for one of Napoleon’s new Legions d’Honneur.’
The Sergeant’s lips twitched again and he let out a bark of laughter this time that quickly turned into a coughing fit.
‘Lord, you are droll, Colonel,’ he said, after his Corporal raised him into a sitting position. ‘I will give her something better. You two can ride without your hands tied now.’
The Sergeant surprised her again. He reached across the short space that separated them, took Hugh’s hand in his and kissed it, then reached for Polly’s and did the same.
There was daylight left, but no one questioned the Sergeant’s decision to backtrack to the bridge and move east just far enough to be among the trees and out of sight. There was even shelter of sorts—a gutted stone farmhouse with interior walls remaining, but no roof. Rendered stupid by exhaustion, Hugh allowed Polly to help him from the horse. Her efforts embarrassed him, but all he wanted to do was lie down and never cross a river again.
‘If I see so much as a tin bathtub in the next four or five years, I swear it will unman me,’ he told her as she helped him into the wholly inadequate shelter of the tumbled stones.
‘You’re the one who told me adventures really weren’t much fun,’ she reminded him.
She was as wet as he was, but he let her help him from his shirt and trousers and wrap him in a blanket smelling strongly of horse. Not until he was lying beside a bonfire, built by one of the troopers, did she think of herself. His men were taking care of Cadotte in much the same fashion on the other side of the interior wall, in what must have been the hut’s great room in better days. She cajoled another blanket, looked around to make sure none of the troopers were in sight, and took off her dress.
His eyes could barely stay open, but he watched her stand there in her chemise for a long moment, then sigh and lift it over her head, until she was naked.
‘Not a word out of you, Colonel,’ she murmured, as she sidled in next to his bare body and pulled both blankets over them. With a sigh, she pillowed her head on his arm, closed her eyes, and slept.
He couldn’t help himself. He reached across her body and gently touched her breast. Knowing he deserved a slap to his face, he smoothed his thumb across her nipple, which only elicited a small sigh from her as she burrowed into his warmth. He reminded himself he was an officer and a gentleman as he ran his hand along her rounded hip and stopped there—the spirit as unwilling now as the flesh was weak. He just wanted to sleep until the war ended and he was home again in Kirkcudbright, with his father and sister there to fuss over him.
When he woke several hours later it was dark and Polly was whimpering. Careful to keep the blankets around them both, he propped himself up on his elbow, the better to see her. He watched her expressive face a moment in the faint glow of the bonfire, which had worked its way down to glowing coals, and carefully removed her spectacles. One of the lenses was cracked in the corner now. He set the spectacles on a niche in the wall behind them, a place where a paisano’s wife had probably kept
her favourite saint.
Polly stirred and cried out, but she still slept. He lay back again, enjoying the feel of her body against his, warm for the first time since he had dived into the river after the Sergeant. As his eyes closed in weariness, he was sure of nothing, except that he relished this woman. How odd it was that in all of his thirty-seven years, he had finally found the woman he wanted like no other, and they were smack in the middle of a war, prisoners, even.
Hugh woke later when Polly stirred in his arms, weeping this time, but still asleep. In his years in both barracks and the fleet, he had heard many a young Marine, newly scoured by battle, do precisely that. His reaction had always been to pat them on the shoulder, so he did that now.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, as she woke. ‘What must you think of me?’
‘I think you’re magnificent and braver than lions,’ he whispered back.
Wordlessly, she turned over to face him and put her arms tight around him, drawing him close as she muffled her sobs against his chest. ‘It’s too much,’ she managed to gasp out, when she could speak. ‘Just too much. Is this ever going to end?’
He held her close, cherishing the feel of her breasts against his chest, her hips so close to his. His lust turned to tenderness; all he wanted to do now was touch her shoulder again, as he did his young Marines, and send her back to sleep as he watched over her. It wasn’t too much to ask, and God was kind for a moment. She sighed, relaxed, and slept.
He thought she would sleep for the night, but she woke a few minutes later, patting his cheek to rouse him. He looked around in alarm, then settled down when she put her hands on both sides of his face and her forehead against his.
‘Hugh, you need to know something,’ she told him, her eyes earnest, but with another emotion visible. ‘I don’t know how you feel about this, but I have to be honest, don’t I?’
Mystified, he nodded.
‘You may not like it, but I suppose that doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘How do I say this? Don’t let me die without making me a woman.’ She put her hands over her face. ‘I am so ashamed to say that.’
He took her hands away. ‘Don’t be. There aren’t enough honest people in the world.’
Her words came out in a rush then. ‘I know I am probably asking too much. I swear it won’t go any further. I mean, here you are, a Lieutenant Colonel, someone of importance, and we know who I am.’ She faltered. ‘I just wanted you to know.’
She looked ready to apologise further, but he put his fingers on her lips. ‘Stop right there, Brandon,’ he whispered.
Her face clouded over, but only until he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close for a kiss. She clung to him, her face against his chest, so he kissed her hair this time.
‘Brandon, you’re not asking too much. Not at all.’
She raised her head to look at him, and he saw her shyness. ‘Hugh, I’m just not sure what to do.’
‘Nor am I,’ he replied, ‘except that everyone thinks we’re already married.’
‘We look like we are right now,’ she pointed out, ever the practical one, which he had decided weeks ago was only one of her many charms. ‘My goodness.’
‘You’re not afraid to give up your virginity to me?’
She shook her head, and her humour came back like a brief candle. ‘This sort of thing wasn’t covered at Miss Pym’s, but I have no intention of going to my death without even a memory of a man’s love. I refuse to just take the words of poets and sonnets, even Shakespeare’s.’
He doubted he had ever heard a more honest admission in his entire life, even as Polly Brandon’s eyes closed. She struggled to open them. ‘Drat,’ she muttered softly. ‘Heroines in novels don’t fall asleep at times like this.’
Laughing softly, Hugh cradled her in his arms and watched in amusement and love as she sighed and slept. Exhausted, he did the same.
Chapter Fifteen
At peace with himself after Brandon’s declaration, Hugh waited until she slept, then left the warmth of her body, careful to tuck the blankets around her. He found his clothes—still damp—and put them on. At least his thorough dousing in one of Portugal’s nameless rivers had cleansed his skin and made his smallclothes less objectionable. He smiled in the dark to think of what his Colonel Commandant in Plymouth would think of his filthy state.
I used to be a bit of a military fop, Hugh thought as he buttoned his trousers, which hung loose on him now. Amazing what three weeks on short rations and then no rations could do. He glanced at Polly. He decided that, as much as he admired her, he preferred the Brandon with more meat clinging to her.
He put his gorget around his neck again, always feeling a relief at having it hanging there, as it had for twenty years now. He knew he should wear it outside his uniform tunic, but there was some comfort from feeling the cold metal gradually warm against his skin, as it reminded him who he was. He glanced at Polly again, as unexpected emotion welled up in him. I wish I had a ring for your finger right now, he told himself. Maybe you are not my actual wife; maybe there never will be one, but you should have a ring. Something eye-popping to impress our lovable Sergeant Cadotte.
He stood a moment looking down at her, suddenly indecisive. If she should wake up while he was gone, what would she do? He chanced it, because he smelled something cooking in the next ruined stone room. Something told him he and Brandon had nothing to fear now from the Frenchmen. Their Sergeant was alive because he and Polly had acted.
Squatting by the fire, Sergeant Cadotte looked up when he came around the corner. ‘You see before you a miracle, Colonel Junnit. I do not refer to myself, although I remain in your debt,’ he said.
Food. Hugh felt his stomach contract and then release its grip on his spine, where he was certain it had cowered and clung for the last week. ‘May I have some?’ he asked, squatting beside his enemy.
After a glance at his Sergeant, the Corporal ladled what looked like porridge into a tin cup. Hugh took it from him with no preliminaries, scooping up a spoonful and blowing on it.
‘One of my troopers went to take a piss by the sheep-fold and noticed the stones,’ Cadotte said.
‘I don’t understand,’ Hugh said, after he swallowed a glorious mouthful of the bland mixture. It was wheat, probably cracked with the butt of someone’s musket and boiled in river water. He knew he would never eat anything so delicious ever again, not if he lived to be a dribbling old man in a kilt in Kirkcudbright.
Cadotte raised his eyebrows. ‘I know Portugal better than you. When they do not feel confident enough to build granaries such as you are already familiar with, the farmers dig grain pits and mark them with a cross of stones.’ He finished his cupful. ‘I cannot imagine how this was overlooked.’ He nodded to his Corporal, who ladled out another cupful of wheat porridge. ‘This is for your wife.’
Hugh finished his cup. He wanted to ask for more; for a second, he even wanted to eat the small share meant for Polly. ‘Delicious,’ he said, taking a swipe inside the cup with his finger and then handing it back to the Corporal.
Before he could take the cup for Polly, he heard an un-earthly wail from the other side of the wall and leaped to his feet. He ran around the tumbling wall, the Sergeant just behind him, to see Polly sitting up, keening like an old woman from his home parish who had lost her whole family.
She burst into tears when she saw him. Hugh slid on his knees by her, careful to cover her again, and then hold her close. ‘Polly, I was just around the corner! Oh, damn my eyes, Sergeant!’
She held herself off from him for a small second, then burrowed into his embrace with more tears. ‘You were gone!’ she managed to gasp. Hugh doubted any accusation at the eternal bar of God on judgement day would have even one-tenth the terror for him as her plaintive sentence.
He feared he couldn’t hold her any tighter without cutting off her breathing, but she kept pressing closer, her tears spilling down her face until he could not help but cry, too, trying to shield himself from the S
ergeant so his enemy would not have cause to gloat over his anguish at leaving Polly alone for even a moment.
He did manage a look at Cadotte, when Polly’s tears turned into hiccups. What he saw brought tears to his own eyes again. The Sergeant sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face. Hugh kissed Polly’s head, looked up at the dark sky. The matter had borne itself home to him more forcefully than any emotion of his life that no matter what happened, Polly was his wife. He had vowed at São Jobim to protect her, and he had just failed her miserably.
Finally she lay silent in his arms, worn out and staring at nothing. His face a study in calm, Sergeant Cadotte leaned across the small space separating them and touched her shoulder. ‘Madame Junnit, let your husband help you with your clothes and come to our fire. We have food. He had only left you to get you some, too.’
She nodded, but said nothing. The Sergeant got up and returned to the other side of the wall.
‘Can you forgive me for leaving you?’ Hugh asked, feeling more wretched than the rawest recruit caught sleeping on duty.
‘It’s…it’s the dream I wake up with every night. I was afraid you had left me to the troopers,’ she whispered. ‘You would never do that. I know you would never do that, but I was still afraid. I’m sorry.’
If she had ripped open his back with pincers and poured lime juice inside, he could not have felt worse, but there was only remorse in her voice, and no accusation. He didn’t deserve such kindness.
‘I’m the one to apologise, Polly,’ he whispered back. ‘I will never do that again.’
‘Brandon, please,’ she told him, with a trace of her former sass.
‘Brandon only and always, except in company,’ he said. ‘Polly, dear.’
She tried to chuckle, but it came out in a sob instead. All he could do was hold her until she pulled away from him and let loose of the blanket. Without a word, she raised her arms so he could pull on her chemise, then let him help her to her feet so he could drop her dress over her head in the same way. He hadn’t even needed to unbutton it in the first place, because it hung on her. With her hand on his shoulder, she let him help her into her stockings and shoes again. She stood still, a dutiful woman, as he carefully hooked the curved bows of her spectacles around her ears again.
