Violet

Chapter One

THE AIDE-DE-CAMP'S BOOTS CLATTERED ON THE WOODEN stairs as he hastened toward the commander in chiefs private office at headquarters in the town of Elvas. Outside the door, however, he slowed, adjusted his stock, pulled down his tunic, smoothed his hair. The Peer didn't look kindly on untidiness, and he had a savage tongue when he chose.

“Enter!” The command rasped at his knock, and he pushed open the door. There were three men in the large drafty room-a colonel, a major, and the commander in chief, standing by the fire blazing in the hearth to combat the damp chill. It had been raining for five days, a relentless, drenching downpour that made life hell for the infantry digging trenches around the besieged town of Badajos just across the Spanish border.

The aide-de-camp saluted. “Dispatches from intelligence, sir.” He placed a sheaf of papers on the desk.

Wellington grunted acknowledgment and moved from the fire to glance through them. His long, bony nose twitched in disgust. He glanced up toward the two officers beside the fire. “The French have taken La Violette.”

“When, sir?” Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon held out his hand for the document Wellington was proffering.

“Yesterday, apparently. Cornichet's men surrounded her band of ruffians outside Olivenza. According to this, they're holding La Violette in a military outpost outside the town.”

“How reliable is this?” The colonel's eyes flickered over the dispatch.

Wellington shrugged and shot an interrogatory glance at the aide-de-camp.

“The agent's one of our best men, sir,” the aide said.

“And the information is so fresh, I'd lay any odds it's correct.”

“Damn,” muttered Wellington. “If the French have her, they'll wring every scrap of knowledge out of her. She knows how to navigate every goddamned mountain pass from here to Bayonne, and what she doesn't know about the partisans in the area isn't worth knowing.”

“We'd better get her out, then,” the colonel drawled as if it were a foregone conclusion, replacing the dispatch on the table. “We can't allow Johnny Crapaud to have information we don't have.”

“No,” agreed Wellington, stroking his chin. “If La Violette's already shared her knowledge with the French, then we'll be at a significant disadvantage if she can't be induced to give it to us too.”

“Why do the French call her that?” inquired the major. “The Spanish call her Violeta, too.”

“It's the way she works, as I understand it,” Colonel St. Simon said, a sardonic note in his voice. “Or rather, plays… the proverbial shrinking violet. She's always to be found hiding behind the activities of the large partisan bands. While the French army is concentrating on guerrilla activities, the little violet and her band are flourishing in the background, causing merry mayhem where least expected.”

“And feathering her own nest while she's about it,” Wellington remarked. “She's said to have no time for the armies of either side, and while she'll assist the Spanish partisans, she expects to be paid for her help… or at least to be put in the way of a little profitable pillage.”

“A mercenary, in other words,” the major said, with a grimace of distaste.

“Precisely. But I gather the French find even less favor with her than our good selves. At least she's never offered to help the French, for any price.” The commander in chief kicked at a falling log in the hearth.

“Until now,” observed the colonel. “They may be offering her the right price at this moment.” He was a big man, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a pair of startling blue eyes beneath bushy red-gold eyebrows. His hair was a thick mane of the same color, an unruly lock flopping over a wide forehead. He carried himself with all the natural authority of a man born to wealth and privilege, a man unaccustomed to questioning the established order of things. A cavalry officer's pelisse was cast carelessly over his scarlet tunic, a massive curved sword sheathed in a broad studded sword belt at his hip. He surged with a restless energy, seeming too big for the confined space.

“I've heard it said, my lord, that the name also comes from La Violette's appearance,” the aide-de-camp ventured. “I understand she resembles the flower.”

“Good God, man!” The colonel's scornful laughter pealed through the dingy room. “She's a ruthless, murdering bandit who, when it suits her whim, chooses for a price to put her dubious services at the partisans' disposal.”

Discomfited, the aide-de-camp shuffled his feet, but the major said briskly, “No, St. Simon, the man's right. I've heard it said, also. I gather she's a diminutive creature who looks as if you could blow her away in one puff.”

“Then she'll not hold out long once Major Cornichet starts his gentle persuasion,” Wellington declared. “He's a vicious, arrogant brute with a taste for interrogation. There's no time to lose. Julian, will you take it on?”

“With pleasure. It'll be a joy to balk Cornichet of his prey.” The colonel was unable to hide his enthusiasm for the task as he clicked his booted feet and his spurs jingled. “And it'll be most satisfying to put an end to the games of this shrinking violet. She's played too long, enriching herself at our expense.” A look of distaste crossed the aristocratic features. Julian St. Simon had no time for mercenaries. “I'll take twenty men.”

“Will that be enough to storm an entire outpost, St. Simon?” the major inquired.

“Oh, I don't intend to storm it, my friend,” Colonel, Lord St. Simon said, grinning. “Stealth and trickery – a little guerrilla warfare of our own, if you take my meaning.”

“Then go to it, Julian.” Wellington offered his hand.

“And bring back this flower so we can pluck her petals ourselves.”

“I'll have her here in five days, sir.” The colonel left the room, currents of energy seeming to swirl in his wake.

Five days was no idle boast, as the commander in chief was aware. Julian St. Simon, at twenty-eight, had been a career soldier for ten years, and he was known as much for his unorthodox methods as for his invariable success. It was held as a fact of life in the mess that St. Simon never failed at a task he set himself, and his men would follow him into an inferno if he asked it of them.

The French outpost was a huddle of wooden huts and tents in a small wood outside the walls of Olivenza. The rain poured down from the leaden skies and dripped from the branches of the trees, soaking the canvas tents and streaming through the spaces between the wooden slats of the huts in a relentless torrent.

La Violette, known to her own people as Tamsyn, daughter of Cecile Penhallan and El Baron, sat huddled on the wet earthen floor in the corner of one of the huts. A rope attached to a plaited leather collar around her neck secured her to the wall. She inched sideways to avoid a persistent trickle of water funnelling down a grooved slat and down the back of her shirt.

She was cold and hungry, cramped and wet, but her eyes were sharp with speculation, her ears straining to catch the low-voiced conversation through the drumming of the rain. Major Cornichet and two fellow officers were eating at a table in the center of the hut. The smell of garlic sausage and ripe cheese set her saliva running. A cork was pulled, and she could taste on her tongue the rough red wine of the region. A wave of hunger-induced nausea washed over her.

She'd been held like this for two days. They'd thrown her half a loaf of bread early this morning. It had landed in the mud beside her, but she'd brushed it off and devoured it, tipping her head to catch the rainwater funnelling in the groove above her. At least there was no shortage of water if she was prepared to forage for herself, and so far she had suffered nothing but discomfort and the humiliation of her position.

A little humiliation and a degree of discomfort were nothing. Tamsyn could hear the baron's voice. “Hija, you must learn what can be endured and what must not; which battles are worth fighting and which are not.”

But when would the softening up cease? When would they start seriously? She could simply give them what they wanted, of course, probably even demand a price for it. But this was a battle worth fighting for. She could not aid the French, betray the partisans, without betraying her father's memory. So when would it start?

As if in answer to her silent question, Major Cornichet stood up and strolled over to her. He looked down at her, one hand stroking the curled waxed mustache above a cruel mouth. She met his gaze as fearlessly as she could.

“Eh, bien,” he said. “You will talk to me now, I believe.”

“About what?” she returned. Her mouth was dry, and despite the cold and the wet, she felt hot and feverish. The daughter of El Baron was no coward, but you didn't have to be a coward to fear what she must now face.

“Don't try my patience,” he said almost affably. “We can do this without pain, or we can do it with. It matters not to me.”

Tamsyn folded her arms, rested her head nonchalantly against the wall at her back, ignoring the trickle of water, and closed her eyes.

The rope attached to the collar was suddenly jerked hard, and she was hauled to her feet, the collar pulling tight against her throat as the colonel jerked upward again and she came up on her toes, fighting for breath.

“Don't be a fool, Violette,” Cornichet said softly.

“You will tell us in the end. Everything we wish to know and much that we don't if it will stop the pain. You know that. We know that. So let's spare ourselves the time and the trouble.”

She wouldn't be able to hold out. Not forever. But she could endure for some time.

“Where is Longa?” The soft question hissed against the monotonous backdrop of the drumming rain.

Longa led the partisan bands in the north. His guerrillas were wreaking havoc on Napoleon's forces with their darting forays, their sneak attacks coming out of the blue, harassing struggling columns, picking off stragglers, laying waste to the land so there was no foraging to be done for an army that survived off the land as they marched.

Tamsyn knew where Longa was. But if news of her capture could reach the guerrilla leader before she broke, then he would be able to disappear. She had to pray that someone was aware of it, that the news was even now traveIing to Pamplona. Her men had scattered in the ambush-those who hadn't been killed-all except for Gabriel. And where was Gabriel? Somewhere in this wretched hole, if they'd left him alive. Perhaps he was even now breaking free. It was impossible to imagine that giant oak of a man held captive by ordinary human bonds. And if Gabriel freed himself, then he would come for her.

She had to endure.

The rope slackened and she came back on her feet again, but the colonel's hand was on her shirt. Instead of ripping it, he unbuttoned it slowly and deliberately.

Her skin was now icy as she saw the knife he held in his other hand. Bitter nausea rose in her throat. Of all things, she dreaded the knife the most. Could Cornichet know that? Know of her invincible terror at the sight of her own torn skin, her own crimson blood escaping… Black spots danced in front of her eyes, and she clung to consciousness with every last fiber of her being.

One of the other men came over, smiling. He moved behind her and pulled the shirt from her as the last button came undone. He grasped her wrists, dragging her arms behind her so that her breasts were pushed forward. Rough rope cut into her wrists. She could feel the soft tremble of her breasts on her rib cage.

“Such a pity,” murmured Cornichet, moving the knife around the small swell of her right breast. “Such delicate skin. One wouldn't expect it of a brigand, a thief and a plunderer.” The tip traced the circle of her nipple. “Don't make me do this,” he said, cajoling. “Tell me where Longa is.”

She said nothing, trying to take her mind away from the hut with the flickering candlelight and the ceaseless drumming of the rain; trying not to feel the cold flat of the knife, pressed now against her breast so that the edge was sharp on her flesh, but not yet cutting.

“You will tell me where Longa is,” the colonel continued in the same almost pensive tone. “And then you will describe the passes through the Guadarrama heights -the ones you and your friends use.”

Still she said nothing. Then she was spinning on the end of the rope as the man behind her whirled her to face the wall. The rope was pulled tight, and she came up on her toes again as they fastened it to a hook much higher on the wall. She felt the knife on her back now, and it was worse, much worse, when she couldn't see it. The tip scribbled down her spine, and she waited for the first nick. It would be a slow flaying, she knew; innumerable little cuts, drawing beads of blood until the stream flowed.

There was a strange smell. For a second Tamsyn didn't recognize it as she fought the terror for control, waiting for the next touch of the knife. Someone coughed behind her. Her breath caught in her throat. The tightness of the collar and her fear… but, no. It was smoke. Thick black smoke creeping under the door. Oily, sullen smoke billowing through the hut, defying the rain. Acrid, choking smoke.

Cornichet cursed, whirling toward the door. One of the others was there before him, wrenching it open. He fell back before the black rolling cloud.

A bugle sounded. An impudent clarion call. And then chaos broke out. In the choking smoke men struggled with black-clad wraiths who seemed to appear from nowhere, swords drawn. The sharp crack of rifles mingled with the curses and exclamations. A scream of pain.

Tamsyn tried to swing herself on her toes away from the wall, but with her hands bound she could get no leverage and could only imagine what was going on in the acrid darkness behind her. Her mind was racing as she tried to think of some way of capitalizing on this amazing piece of good fortune. But strung up as she was, there seemed nothing she could do to help herself. Could it be Gabriel causing this chaos?

Then miraculously the rope holding her to the wall parted. The tension was abruptly released, and she fell to her knees.

“Get up!” a voice said in English. A knife sliced through the bonds at her wrists.

Tamsyn wasted no time questioning her good fortune. She struggled to her feet, choking as the greasy black smoke curled around her.

“Quickly!” the same voice commanded. “Move!” A hand in the small of her back propelled her forward.

There was something irritatingly peremptory about her rescuer, but circumstances didn't lend themselves to protest. Her eyes stung with the smoke, and her lungs heaved. She ducked sideways away from the propelling hand to catch up her shirt, glimmering white on the floor at her feet. She thrust her arms in the sleeves before covering her mouth and nose with her forearm, then staggered forward, that hard hand in her back again, pushing rather than guiding her toward the door.

All around her, men swayed, cursed, coughed, fought for the door. Outside it was hardly better. Every hut seemed to be smoldering, sending greasy clouds into the rain, and men ran hither and thither grabbing up possessions, shouting orders.

Again the bugle sounded and she recognized the note of retreat. The man still pushing her forward bellowed, “The Sixth to me.” Then her feet left the ground and he was carrying her, running with her through the mud and the rain and the confusion, dodging blue formed Frenchmen.

Men wrapped in dark cloaks were racing to a clearing where twenty horses pawed the ground and whickered, the whites of their eyes showing as they smelled smoke.

Colonel St. Simon threw his light burden upward onto -the back of his charger and was up behind her in almost the same movement.

“Gabriel!” the girl shouted incomprehensibly. “I must find Gabriel.” Taking the colonel by surprise, she hurled herself sideways, landing neatly on the balls of her feet.

St. Simon had no time to think. He leaped from his horse and plunged after his prize as she darted into the darkness. He caught her before she'd gone more than a few yards, his hand closing over her wrist.

“Goddamn it! Where the hell do you think you're going?”

Tamsyn couldn't see him clearly, was conscious only of the shape and mass of his body in the shadowy, flickering darkness. Again his tone set her hackles rising, but remembering that whoever he was, she owed him some considerable debt, she bit back a sharp rejoinder and spoke with impatient moderation.

“Thank you very much for rescuing me from such an uncomfortable situation, sir. I don't know why you should have done so, but I'm truly grateful. However, I can manage perfectly well now, and I must find Gabriel.” She tugged at her captive wrist.

An uncomfortable situation! She called semi-naked, strung up by the neck, facing the slow agony of the knife, an uncomfortable situation! And she was thanking him as if she believed either he'd acted out of pure altruism or her rescue was a coincidence. In any other circumstances St. Simon might have found such a wild misapprehension amusing.

Flame shot up in the air from somewhere in the encampment, and a burst of rifle fire punctuated the confused shouts and bellows. Julian heard one of his own men yell urgently from the clearing behind them. This was no time to be bandying words with La Violette. His grip on her wrist tightened as she fought to break his hold, at the moment he had this brigand's spawn physically secured.

The cavalcade reached the bank of the Guadiana and halted. There was no sound of pursuit, only the rushing water of the river.· The night sky was black as pitch, and it was impossible to tell in the dark whether the river could be safely forded at this point.

“Sergeant! “

“Sir.” One of the black-cloaked figures separated itself from the men and rode up to the colonel.

“We'll bivouac here until dawn and then look for a ford. Let's see if we can find some shelter from this blasted rain. Try those trees.” The colonel gestured with his whip to an isolated clump of trees on the plain.

The sergeant gave the order and the cavalcade cantered off, the colonel following, his brow furrowed as he considered what he was to do with his captive once they were on the ground.

The copse yielded a deserted wooden shack, half its roof intact, and a ruined barn. The men of the Sixth were accustomed to bivouacking in the most unpromising circumstances. During the four-year struggle to drive Napoleon out of Spain and Portugal, the broiling summers and freezing, rain-swept winters in the Iberian Peninsula inured a man to ordinary discomforts. The horses were tethered under the trees, and men gathered sticks to make fires in the shelter of the barn walls. Even wet wood could be coaxed to produce a sullen flame with the dry tinder they all carried with them.

The colonel swung down from his horse, still holding his presently unresisting captive, and strode into the shack.

“Light a fire in 'ere, sir, an' you'll be snug as a bug in a rug,” the sergeant pronounced, following him inside.

“The men ‘ave got dry tinder left from the attack on the Froggies, an' I reckon a pannikin of tea wouldn't come amiss. “

“Sounds wonderful, Sergeant,” the colonel said somewhat absently. “Post pickets around the wood. We don't want the fires drawing unwelcome attention.”

He glanced down at the figure in his arms. La Violette had turned her head away from his chest as his grip had changed, and he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. She returned his scrutiny with an expression of mild curiosity that could have lulled a less cynical man into a false sense of security.

“What now, English Colonel?” Her English was so faintly accented, it would take a sharp ear to detect it, he thought in surprise.

“You speak good English?”

“Of course. My mother was English. Are you going to put me down?”

“If I do, will you give me your word you'll not attempt to run?”

A glint of mocking laughter appeared in her eyes.

“You'd accept the parole of a brigand, English Colonel?”

“Should I?”

She laughed aloud. “That's for me to know and you to find out, Colonel.”

There was something unpleasant beneath her mocking laughter. A wealth of antagonism that struck Julian as almost personal. Obviously it had slipped the brigand’s mind that her present comfort was dependent upon his goodwill.

“Thank you for the warning,” he said dryly. “I'll heed it.” He glanced around the small, inhospitable space. “I suppose I could utilize that neat collar Cornichet put on you and secure you in that fashion.”

Tamsyn pulled herself up sharply. This was not a man to mock, clearly. A different attitude was required.

“That won't be necessary,” she said swiftly, her eyes suddenly soft and conciliatory. “Please put me down, Colonel. How could I possibly escape with all your men around?”

Quite a little actress, La Violette, Julian thought with a grim inner smile. But that little-girl-Iost look wasn't fooling him. “I'll put you down with pleasure,” he drawled. “But you'll have to forgive me if I take certain precautions. Sergeant, bring me a length of rope.”

Tamsyn cursed her stupidity. Clearly she'd underestimated this particular example of the flower of Wellington ’s cavalry. She'd allowed her anger to get the better of her and indulged her contempt and loathing for the entire pompous, conceited breed with their gold braid and their buttons, but it seemed this colonel was not quite as blind and stupid as her prejudice had dictated.

She was set on her feet, her limbs still immobilized by the tight folds of the cloak.

“Do seat yourself, senorita,” the colonel invited his voice as smooth as silk. “The floor is a trifle damp, but I'm afraid my hospitality is somewhat limited at present.” He took the length of rope the sergeant handed him, and when Tamsyn didn't immediately avail herself of his invitation, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down.

Resistance was again futile. Tamsyn didn't fight the pressure but folded herself onto the floor, leaning against the wet wall. It was a horribly familiar position, and she reflected dismally that she'd been flipped from the frying pan to the fire with remarkable ease. She waited grimly for him to fasten the rope to the collar she still wore, but to her relief, he bent and hobbled her ankles and then tied the free end to the buckle of his sword belt. The rope was long enough to allow him to move around the small space while effectively restraining his prisoner, but it was nowhere near as uncomfortable or as hideously humiliating as to be tethered by the neck.

With her hands free she was able to loosen the folds of the cloak, and it was always possible she'd have the opportunity to untie her ankles if this sharp-eyed colonel dropped his guard, or fell asleep. She reached up to unbuckle the loathsome leather collar and threw it as far from her as she could.

The colonel raised an eyebrow but said nothing and made no attempt to retrieve the collar. Presumably, he preferred his own methods of restraint. Tamsyn huddled into the cloak and settled down to await developments.

A small fire crackled now under the roofed half of the hut, and the sergeant had balanced a pannikin of water over the flames. An oil lamp flickered, throwing grotesque shadows as the colonel loosened his tunic, unfastened his saddlebags, rustled through the contents. Tamsyn could hear shuffling and low voices from outside as the men settled into their own makeshift camp.

Her mouth watered as she watched the colonel unwrap a loaf of bread and a packet of cold meat. The sergeant was making tea, wetting the precious leaves in a mug so they were thoroughly infused before pouring on the rest of the boiling water.

These English certainly knew how to see to their comforts, Tamsyn reflected. Even in such dismal and unpromising circumstances.

Julian ate his supper with relish. He took the mug of tea from the sergeant with a word of thanks, and the man went outside to join the men bivouacking under the trees. The colonel studiously avoided looking at his captive as he drank thirstily and with obvious enjoyment. He'd decided that La Violette could go hungry for a salutary period. It might improve her attitude.

“What did you tell Cornichet?” he asked suddenly. Tamsyn shrugged and closed -her eyes. For some reason her usual resistance was deserting her, and she felt remarkably like crying. She wanted a cup of tea. More than food. In fact, she thought she could kill for a cup of that hot, steaming, reddish-brown liquid, so strong it would make her tongue curl. “Nothing.”

“I assume they'd only just started on you.” She didn't reply.

“What did he want to know?”

“What right do you have to take me prisoner?” she countered. “I'm no enemy of the English. I help the partisans, not the French.”

“As long as there's some profit in it for you, as I understand it,” he said, his voice a whip crack in the dim hovel. “Don't pretend to patriotic loyalty. We all know where La Violette's interests lie.”

“And just what business is it of yours?” she demanded furiously, forgetting- her hunger and fatigue. “I've done you no harm. I don't interfere with the English army. You trample all over my country, behaving like God-given conquering heroes. All complacence and pomposity-”

“Hold your tongue, you!” The colonel was on his feet, his eyes blazing. “The blood of Englishmen has watered this damnable peninsula for four interminable years, doing the work of your countrymen, trying to save you and your country from Napoleon's heel. I have lost more friends than I can count in the interests of your miserable land, and you speak against those men at your peril. Do you understand that?”

He towered over her, and Tamsyn tried not to flinch.

Suddenly he swooped down on her, his hand catching her chin, turning her face to the flickering lamplight. “Do you understand?” His voice was very quiet, but his fury was a naked blade in the bright-blue eyes, his close- gripped mouth a hard line.

“The English have their own reasons for being here, she retorted, forcing herself to meet his eye. “ England couldn't survive if Napoleon held Spain and Portugal. He'd close their ports to English trading, and you'd all starve to death.”

They both knew she spoke the unvarnished truth.

There was silence. He still held her face, his own very close to hers, and she could feel the bruising indentation of his fingers on her chin and the warmth of his skin. He seemed to fill her vision, to expand before her eyes until he was all she could see, and their miserable surroundings, even the dull spurt of firelight, vanished into the shadows.

Julian found himself looking at her, examining her properly for the first time as his surge of righteous anger died beneath the truth of her counterattack. Pale hair like corn silk formed a close-cut cap around a small head, a roughly chopped fringe wisping on her forehead. Her eyes were almond-shaped, thick-lashed, and deep purple beneath arched fair eyebrows that gave her a rather quizzical air.

“Good God, comparison with a violet wasn't just whimsy,” he said slowly into the tense silence. “But you belong to a rather thorny species, I suspect.”

His fingers tightened, and for a moment his mouth hovered over hers so that Tamsyn could feel his breath on her lips and the sense of inhabiting some space and time that held only the two of them intensified. When his mouth met hers, it felt inevitable, and she was sliding down into a warm, musky darkness bounded by the scent of his rain-wet skin, the rasp of stubble against her cheek, the firm pliancy of his lips on hers.

Then the trance was shattered, and she jerked her head away, bringing her hand up to smash against his cheek. “Bastardo!” Her voice shook. “Bastard!” She spat the words at him. “You rape your prisoners, do you, English Colonel? I thought it was only your English foot soldiers who indulged themselves in such fashion. But I imagine they take example from their officers.”

The depth of her rage, the power of the hatred that lay beneath it, stunned him for a minute. He stared at her, his hand unconsciously pressed to his stinging cheek. Then suddenly he took her face between both hands and brought his mouth to hers again, this time with a bruising force that crushed her lips against her teeth and forced her head back against the wall.

When he released her, she didn't move, her face a pale shape in the gloom, her eyes dark pools.

“In future you won't confuse a mutual kiss with violation,” he declared, his voice tight, his anger directed as much at himself as at the girl. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him. He made it a rule never to amuse himself with women connected even tenuously with any of the armies marching through the Peninsula. “You ever insult me in that fashion again, mi muchacha, and I won't answer for the consequences.”

A shiver ran through her, and still she didn't move and she didn't speak. Julian stood looking down at her, and now he saw the blue shadows of exhaustion on the paper-thin skin beneath her eyes, the fine lines of endurance on the drawn countenance. She’d been a prisoner of the French for two days. When had she last eaten? Slept?

She reminded him of a bruised flower.

Dear Lord! He was falling victim to an attack of sentimental fantasy, he thought disgustedly, but he turned to the fire and refilled his mug with tea. “Here.”

She took the mug, still without speaking, but he saw how her fingers trembled as they curled around the warmth, lifting it to her lips. A shudder of pleasure rippled through the slight frame as the hot liquid slipped down her throat.

He broke bread, slapped two thick slices of cold mutton onto a crusty hunk, and handed it to her, then he turned to tend the fire, withdrawing his attention from her so she could eat in relative privacy, despite the rope that fastened her to his sword belt.

As he rubbed his hands over the small flame, he realized that the rain had stopped. After seven days of continual downpour, the relentless drumming had ceased. He glanced up at the sky visible above the roofless half of their shelter. A faint, misty aura showed through the clouds. Fine weather would expedite the siege workings outside Badajos. Besieging a city was wretched work and made the men restless and dissatisfied. They'd all be glad when this one was over and done with.

He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. She’d put the empty mug on the floor beside her and was huddled into his boat cloak, her eyes closed.

For such a very thorny violet, she looked remarkably vulnerable and powerless. Nevertheless, Colonel, Lord St. Simon decided he'd stay awake for what remained of the night.