by Violet
“Sweet heaven, what a euphemism!” Julian broke in with a harsh laugh. “Would to God the world had been spared such an accident!”
“That is unkind,” Tamsyn protested, looking tremulously at Wellington.
He scratched his nose. What did Julian have against the girl? She seemed a plucky little creature. “I’m at a loss to know what this is leading to, señorita. How can Lord St. Simon assist you?”
“Oh, that’s simple,” Tamsyn said, cheering up immediately. “I don’t think it should take me more than six months to learn to be an English lady. My plan is that the colonel will accompany me to England … to Cornwall … and teach me what I need to know; then I can try to discover my mother’s family. Someone must have heard the story of a daughter vanishing twenty years ago on a visit to Spain. And I hope, when I’m presentable, I can effect an introduction. We could say that my mother married a Spanish grandee of true hidalgo blood and I was told of my English heritage only at her deathbed. I thought we could say that the colonel met my father in some circumstances and because of an obligation to him agreed to take me under his protection when I was orphaned.
“And perhaps,” she added with a winsome smile at the duke, “perhaps it would help if we could say that your grace lent me your protection also.”
“You thought we could say what?” exclaimed the colonel when this succinct speech had sunk in.
“That you took me—”
“All right, I heard!” he interrupted with an abrupt motion of his hand. “I’ve never heard such a preposterous jumble of invention in my life.”
“But it will serve,” Tamsyn insisted stubbornly. “I know it will. All I want is six months of your time, milord colonel. I have plenty of funds of my own, so I’ll not be a charge on you in any way. I’m asking only for your attention for a limited time. You see, I don’t know anyone else to ask,” she added, turning once more in appeal to the duke. “And it’s so convenient that you should be Cornish.”
“Preposterous!” Julian repeated in disgust. “I’ve wasted enough of my time on you.”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” Tamsyn said, and there was no sign now of the forlorn orphan in the obstinate set of her chin and the briskness of her tone. “Forgive me for wasting your time, sir.” She rose and bowed to Wellington, then, without casting so much as a glance in the colonel’s direction, stalked out of the room.
“Consider for a minute, Julian,” Wellington said slowly. “Six months, it’s not so very great a commitment.”
“What?” Julian stared at the duke in disbelief. “You’d have me play schoolmaster and mentor to that … that … misbegotten devil’s spawn … leave the Peninsula. Good God, sir, how could you consider such a thing?”
“You could do me an immeasurably valuable service while you were in England,” Wellington said, sounding pensive. “I’ve been wondering whom to send. And six months is not so very great a time. You know how slowly things move out here. You’ll be back in no time.”
Julian could find no words as the incredible realization dawned that his commander in chief wanted him to take on this unbelievable assignment.
He stared in disbelief for a second, then said, “Excuse me.” With a curt bow he turned on his heel and left the room. Disbelief warred with wild fury in a bewildering maelstrom of emotion that chased away all clarity of mind and purpose.
He ran down the stairs and out into the street, brushing past an orderly, his face hidden by the towering pile of the commander’s freshly laundered shirts in his arms. The mountain shook and toppled to the street. The colonel didn’t even notice, simply continued at a near run, leaving the orderly cursing and muttering as he picked up the laundry from the dusty cobbles.
Julian saw Tamsyn outside Senhora Braganza’s cottage as he rounded the corner. She was leaning against the wall idly chatting with the senhora, who was working in her garden.
“Ah, milord colonel.” Tamsyn greeted his arrival with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you’d said your piece.”
“Oh, believe me, I haven’t even begun,” he declared, and despite her bravado, Tamsyn quailed before the livid countenance. She opened her mouth to say something she hoped was defusing, but the colonel swept an arm around her waist and bundled her ahead of him into the cottage.
On her knees before a row of cabbages, Senhora Braganza stared after them, then shook her head, muttering to herself as she dragged a weed by its roots from the thin soil.
Tamsyn reached her small room under the eaves as breathless as if she’d run up the stairs herself, although she was fairly certain her feet hadn’t touched ground from the moment Julian’s arm had come around her waist. The door crashed shut as she was thrust into the room, still imprisoned in the colonel’s arm.
“By God!” he said in a whisper so contained it had the power of a shout. “By God, girl, you’re not going to do this to me!” His free hand was at her throat, forcing her chin up so she was looking up at him, and every distinct word he spoke fell on her face almost like a slap. “I am not going to allow you to force this on me. You are a manipulative, lying little thief, and your presence in my life ends right here … in this room at this minute! Have you taken that into your devious head, girl?”
Tamsyn’s mind raced. What she heard in his voice was akin to desperation beneath the savagery of his manner. He was afraid that somehow he’d find himself doing what she wanted against every ounce of will he possessed. What was he afraid of? Exactly what pressure could force him to help her? Wellington’s orders, of course. And she was counting on the duke’s pressing need for her information. But she didn’t think Wellington would go beyond persuasion. It was quite another matter to compel one of his officers to do something so out of the line of duty. Which left her.… The colonel was afraid of her, of what she on her own could persuade him to do.
He was still holding her roughly against him, his hand ungentle against her throat, forcing up her chin. But her own hands were free, and deliberately she slipped her arms around his body, turning herself slightly in his hold so now it would look to anyone who didn’t know otherwise as if they were locked in a passionate embrace.
He jumped at her movement, his expression incredulous as he realized what she was doing. “You little whore!” he exclaimed, yanking her hands away from him, thrusting her from him with such vigor that she almost stumbled.
“No,” Tamsyn protested. “Not so. You were holding me so tightly, it seemed the most natural thing to do.”
He looked so astounded, she could almost have felt sympathy, but the stakes were too high, and she pressed her advantage, stepping closer to him again. “It was only a suggestion, milord colonel.” Her eyes were so huge, he felt as if he were slipping into them, her smile so seductive, the ground seemed to quiver beneath his feet.
She raised a hand and lightly traced the shape of his mouth. “So stern,” she murmured, her smile broadening. “Relax, I’m offering only pleasure. Remember how wonderful it was by the river, think how we could have times like that whenever we wanted them.”
“Harlot! You’d sell yourself—”
“No,” Tamsyn interrupted, the seductive gleam leaving her eyes. “I’m not selling myself. The only thing I’m selling is information that your commander in chief would dearly like to buy. I was offering you compensation, that’s all.”
“Compensation for dancing attendance on the bastard brat of a murdering robber!”
“Oh!” Tamsyn exclaimed, rendered momentarily speechless. “You have all the chivalry of a wood louse! In all honesty and … and desirous affection, I suggest we make love and you—”
“Desirous affection!” He gave a short crack of disbelieving laughter. “Where the hell did you dredge up an expression like that? And what kind of gull do you think I am to fall for such a line?”
“It’s true,” she insisted fiercely.
Julian stood very still for a minute. His gaze ran slowly down the lean, tensile frame in front of him. She was thru
mming with energy and indignation, and something else. That determination and purpose he’d felt the first moment he’d touched her. She was fully prepared to use her body to persuade him to do what she wanted. Well, it was time La Violette learned that not everyone could be molded to her purpose.
“Desirous affection, eh?” he mused, his hands on his belt buckle. “Prove it to me, Violette.” He unfastened the buckle and swung free the heavy belt weighted with his sword, placing it on the table beneath the window. “What are you waiting for?” He glanced at Tamsyn, who still stood in the middle of the room. “Take your clothes off.”
Somehow this was not going according to plan. It seemed as if it was, and yet something was amiss. However, having started on this course, Tamsyn felt compelled to continue. She kicked off her boots and undressed swiftly, tossing her clothes to the floor.
The colonel stood naked, feet apart, hands resting on his hips when she turned back to him. “I’m eager to see this demonstration of desirous affection,” he drawled. “But I should warn you that I have very little time, so I hope your harlot’s tricks are effective.”
Tamsyn quivered and her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I believe you’ll find them so, milord colonel,” she said, stepping up to him.
Something warned him just in time, and he spun sideways as she brought her knee up in a vicious jab to his groin. “Fiera!” he bellowed, his nostrils flaring. His thigh throbbed where her knee had made savagely jarring contact, and he felt sick at the thought of what would have happened if it had met its intended target.
“You dare to insult me in such fashion!” she yelled back, rubbing her knee where it had made bruising contact with his hard-muscled thigh. “Get out of here! I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man on earth.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you? And just what happened to desirous affection?” He swooped on her, catching her around the waist, carrying her to the bed. “That died pretty quickly, didn’t it?”
Tamsyn was aware of his vitally aroused body as he dropped her onto the coverlet. Obviously, the man liked a good fight … annoyingly, in the circumstances, so did she. Her body was tingling where his skin touched her, and there was a whirling excitement in the pit of her belly.
He leaned over her, pushing a knee between her thighs, and there was a predatory hunger in the bright-blue eyes. “Or did it?” he demanded, nudging her thighs apart.
“The affection part did,” Tamsyn declared, moistening suddenly dry lips. His hand had found her now. His eyes never left her face as he played on her as if she were a lute string, plucking and stroking until she sang beneath his touch. When her little whimpering cries of ecstasy filled the small room, he slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her to meet him as he drove deep within her body while it still pulsated with her pleasure.
Satisfaction glittered in his eyes now as he moved above her, still watching her face with rapt intensity. He ran a finger over her lips, and she could taste the musky fragrance of her own body. He smiled. She smiled back, moving easily with his rhythm, as the deep, warm joy began to fill her belly and flow like honey in her veins. It was hard to imagine that a few short minutes before, they’d been fighting like a pair of mongrel curs.
His eyes glowed and he lowered his mouth to hers, the speed of his movements increasing as his tongue plunged and danced with hers and their cries of pleasure became as entangled as their bodies and the sweet liquid flow of arousal.
Tamsyn fluttered down to earth, a fragile leaf dropped finally by the airborne currents of ecstasy. She stroked Julian’s back, where sweat glistened in the morning sunlight, feeling her own sweat gathering between her breasts, crushed by his weight.
Reluctantly, he moved away from her, his breathing still ragged as he dropped onto the narrow cot beside her. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side, turning to look at her as she lay on her back. He passed a hand over her belly in a gesture that was as much farewell as acknowledgment of shared joy, then heaved himself to his feet.
Tamsyn lay and watched him dress in silence. If that demonstration of naked desire and its delicious fulfillment had altered his determination to deny her his assistance, he gave no sign. He buckled on his sword belt and came back to the cot, bending to kiss her, a light, friendly farewell.
“Take care of yourself,” he said. “Give Gabriel my regards when he comes to fetch you.”
The door closed, and she heard his booted feet hurrying down the wooden stairs as if he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon was proving to be more resistant than she’d expected. Tamsyn got off the bed and went to the window, watching him stride up the street. Next time she saw him, the battle for Badajos would be over. It was neither reasonable nor feasible to renew her attack until then.
Always assuming he was alive in the morning.
Chapter Eight
IT BEGAN AT TEN O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT.
Tamsyn had ridden out of Elvas in the late afternoon. She rode through the army encampment, noticing the air of low-key excitement as men, fortified by an extra ration of grog, gathered in groups, checking their equipment, exchanging anecdotes of past campaigns. A few looked up as she passed, but their attention was taken more by Cesar than by the Arab’s rider.
Tamsyn wondered where Julian could be in this tent city. The senior officers’ tents were easily identified by their size, and she rode past several, hearing voices within raised in laughter, the sound of crockery and glass chinking as Wellington’s officers dined together in the hours before the battle.
It didn’t occur to her to attempt to find St. Simon; he would need all his concentration for the night to come. Her solitary reconnaissance was as much for something to do as anything else. She’d been brought up in a warrior encampment, knew the apprehension and the excitement before an engagement, and it was impossible for her to stay in Elvas, a useless spectator, watching and waiting.
With dusk came an eerie silence as the daytime gun-fire and shelling tailed off. The atmosphere in the camp changed. Officers appeared from their tents, orders were given in low, crisp tones, and men began to move in groups toward the trenches. The night was dark, heavy clouds obscuring the moon.
Tamsyn rode outside the camp to a small hill, where she sat her horse and waited. Sentry lights wavered on the ramparts of Badajos, but apart from that it was still and dark across the plain, no indication of the army of men creeping through the trenches to drop their ladders into the ditches before the breaches in the city walls, or of the storming parties massed behind them.
But the French would know they were coming. Their own intelligence network would have told them to expect the assault even if they didn’t know the time or the configuration. But they would be ready to defend the breaches, holding their breath in the same silence as their attackers.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted, and Cesar shifted his hooves and whinnied softly.
Then the dreadful waiting silence was broken by a thundering war cry as the cheering British troops rushed through the outer ditches to reach the walls. Mortars roared in response from the ramparts, and the night was split with gunfire and exploding shells.
Tamsyn closed her eyes involuntarily as the noise became hideous, every pause in the firing filled with piercing screams, and the clarion calls of the bugles repeatedly sounding the advance. A violent light flashed across her eyelids, and she opened her eyes to see two brilliant fireballs flaming against the sky as they were shot from the ramparts to fall to the ground half a mile away, where they continued to blaze, illuminating the ghastly scene.
In the burning light Tamsyn discerned a group of men sheltered from the gunfire behind a small mound but still within range of the shells. The unmistakable figure of the Duke of Wellington stood out in the light thrown from a torch held by an officer beside him.
She urged the reluctant Cesar forward and joined the outskirts of the group, where men stood by their horses in alert readiness
but at a discreet distance from the commander in chief, who was writing orders in the light of the torch. The screams of the wounded were clearer here, mingling with the long, drawn-out groans of the dying. Again and again the bugles signaled the advance, and the men hurled themselves up the ladders, to face the deadly resistance of the defenders, who hurled firebombs and barrels of gunpowder with short fuses into the ditches below, where they exploded, casting up burning bodies in a ghastly fountain of death.
Men rode up on lathered horses with information for the commander in chief from the thick of the fighting. The message was always one of failure. Every attempt was being beaten back; the troops were exhausted, decimated, their officers slaughtered like flies as the defenders hurled them back from the summit of the ladders. Wellington’s face was white granite in the flickering torchlight as he received the stream of desperate communications, but he seemed to Tamsyn to be unflustered, writing more orders calmly, speaking in collected tones to his staff gathered close around him.
Then the bugle calls changed, and she recognized the note of recall. Over and over it sounded, but she could neither see nor hear any diminution in the savage conflict. The earth continued to throw up flame and burning bodies, whose hideous screams warred with the bellowing of the guns and the exploding mines. It was impossible to imagine anyone emerging alive from that inferno, and she stood by her nervous horse in a kind of numbed trance of horror, wondering why men would do this, would engage in such wholesale slaughter just to take over an insignificant heap of bricks and mortar.
But coherent reasoning wasn’t possible, and her thoughts and emotions finally centered on the name of Julian St. Simon, repeating itself over and over again in her head like the refrain of a song that wouldn’t be banished. He became the focus of the conflagration, the only reality her mind could grasp, but she couldn’t manage to speculate where he was, whether he was alive, or whether he was lying somewhere under a heap of bodies, screaming in his agony, suffocating in the blood of others, or whether he was now only a cold, pale lump of bleeding clay.
