Violet

Epilogue

Madrid. Christmas 1812

A LIGHT SNOW WAS FALLING, A FINE POWDER SETTLING ON the winding road approaching the city across the plain. The wind sharpened and a gust lifted the carpet of snow, sending it in a rolling drift toward the gates.

The corporal outside the guardhouse shivered and turned up his collar. He stuck his head into the frowsty warmth of the guardroom. “Looks like someone's coming, sir.”

The lieutenant turned from the charcoal brazier where he'd been warming his hands and stepped outside. A small group of horsemen was approaching, white wraithlike figures in the drifting powder.

“Spanish saddles,” the lieutenant said, clapping his hands together. “Looks like the brigadier's lady. I'd know that horse anywhere.”

The four horses surged out of the snow and drew rein at the guard post. Two of the riders were unremarkable, but a third was a giant oak of a man astride a massive, raw-boned stallion. Beside him rode a small figure astride a magnificent milk-white Arabian.

“Good evening, Lieutenant.” The Arabian's rider spoke English in a faintly accented female voice that made the corporal stare.

The lieutenant, however, showed no surprise. “Evening, ma'am. You're just in time for the Christmas ball at the duke's headquarters. Started about an hour ago.”

“Perfect timing.” Tamsyn flashed him a smile. “I hope you're not on duty all evening.”

“I drew the short straw,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “But the lads will bring us some Christmas cheer later.”

“Who was that?” the corporal asked as the four riders rode on into the city.

“The brigadier's lady,” the lieutenant said. “Oh, but of course, you're a Johnny Raw. Only been out here a couple of weeks, I was forgetting.”

He went back into the guardhouse, stamping the snow off his boots. “Lady St. Simon,” he elaborated as the corporal followed him. “She rides with the partisans, acts as liaison between them and the commander. The big chap's her bodyguard, goes by the name of Gabriel. Watch out for him if you catch him in his cups. Mostly he's as gentle as a lamb, but when he's had a few, he's a devil.”

“Brigadier, Lord St. Simon's wife?” the corporal said in astonishment. “A partisan?”

“That's right.” The lieutenant was enjoying the' man's amazement. “Quite the pet of the regiment, she is. Reckon we'll all be glad to see her back.” He chuckled. “She should have reported in four days ago, and the brigadier's been worried sick-makes him a right martinet.”

Brigadier, Lord Julian St. Simon was at this moment trying very hard to be polite to his partner in the quadrille. The ballroom in the large mansion occupied by the Duke of Wellington was hung with greenery wilting in the oppressive heat. The warmth from the fires blazing in massive open hearths at each end of the room was augmented by myriad candles flaring in branched candelabra. The scent of perfume and pomade and ripely overheated flesh was almost overpowering as the officers of the Army of the Peninsular and their ladies forgot the privations of summer campaigning and enjoyed the social pleasures of winter quarters.

Julian, however, was not enjoying himself, despite the fact that his partner was one of the belles of the regiment. The Honorable Miss Beazley, well aware of the reason for her partner's monosyllabic conversation, was understanding and kept up a light flow of undemanding small talk, occasionally reminding the brigadier of a step in the elaborate dance when he became more than ordinarily absentminded.

The clock had just struck nine when the double doors to the ballroom were flung open, letting in a draft of refreshingly cold air from the hall. There was a whirlwind rush of movement as a small figure hurtled across the dance floor.

Brigadier St. Simon dropped his partner's hand as his wife, still in her riding britches, leaped into his arms with a cry of jubilation, her legs curling around his waist, her arms fastening around his neck as she kissed him.

Vaguely Julian was aware of the immodesty of her position, of how clearly her limbs were outlined in the tight britches. His hands cupped her bottom, holding her up against him, her mouth devoured him, and his head spun with the weakness and dizzying joy of relief

“Passionate little filly, isn't she?” Wellington murmured, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Nice lines.”

“I think perhaps I should take Julian's place with Miss Beazley,” Tiro O'Connor said with a grin. “She looks somewhat abandoned.” He strode onto the floor and gracefully swept the brigadier's neglected partner back into the formation.

Julian, still clutching his clinging wife, stepped hastily off the floor. “Mere have you been?” he exclaimed when she'd released his mouth for a minute. “I've been out of my mind!”

“There was snow in the passes… some of them were closed,” Tamsyn said, sitting back on his supporting hands, smiling into his face. “And we had a couple of skirmishes… not serious ones,” she added hastily, seeing his face darken.

“You gave me your word you wouldn't take part in any combat.”

“I didn't participate,” she said. “Ask Gabriel.” She brushed his lips with her own.

“I shall.” He still sounded a little grim, but Tamsyn, who knew how difficult it had been for him to accept her return to partisan activities, simply kissed him again.

“Dear God!” Julian suddenly came back to a full sense of their surroundings. “What are you doing dressed like this in the middle of a ball? You're shameless!” But he was laughing now with pleasure as he moved his hands to her waist and swung her away from him, setting her on her feet.

“Would you have preferred it if I'd spent an hour changing into something respectable before letting you know I was back?” Tamsyn demanded, pouting with mock petulance.

“No,” he stated. “If you'd delayed a minute, I'd have wrung your neck.”

“That's rather what I thought,” she said with a grin, turning to the man who had come up behind them. “Duke, I have a dispatch from Longa. He's moving into France with some of his raids now.”

“I'm glad to see you back safe and sound, Violette,” Wellington said. “I hope I shall now regain the relatively undivided attention of your husband.” He raised his eyeglass and examined her with an air of enjoyment. “An unusual costume, ma'am, for a formal ball.”

Tamsyn gave him a wry smile. “My apologies, Duke. But I couldn't wait to see Julian, and since he was here amusing himself without a thought for me, I had no choice.” She turned reproachful violet eyes upon her husband. “Dancing with the beautiful Miss Beazley, sir! I was cut to the quick.”

Julian shook his head, pursing his lips. “You're sailing very close to the wind, buttercup.” With one swift movement he swept her up under his arm. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

“It's not fair that you should call me buttercup when I can't call you milord colonel anymore,” Tamsyn protested as he carried her out of the ballroom and out into the snow.

“Life is full of inequities, my dear.”

“And this is one of them,” she grumbled. “I hate being carted around like a sack of potatoes. It's not in the least dignified.”

“But then you're not a very dignified sort of a person,” Julian pointed out as they entered the narrow town house where they had their own quarters.

“Not at all a suitable wife for Lord St. Simon, I suppose.” She wriggled in his hold to push open the door to the bedroom at the head of the steep flight of stairs.

“On the contrary. A perfect wife for Lord St. Simon.” Julian dropped her facedown on the bed.

“A woman whose nearest male relative is the focus for the biggest scandal to hit London in a century?” She rolled onto her back, her smile quizzical.

“Lord St. Simon couldn't imagine a more perfect wife,” he repeated with mock solemnity.

Tamsyn opened her arms. “As it happens, Lady St. Simon couldn't imagine another husband. And at the moment she is very very hungry for love, mi esposo.”

He smiled, and the teasing light was gone from his eyes as he came down onto the bed beside her. “You will never go hungry for my love, querida.”

“A love for all life,” she declared, tracing his mouth with her fingertip.

“Is there another kind?” He clasped her wrist and sucked her fingertip between his lips, his teeth lightly grazing the pad.

“The baron and Cecile didn't think so.” She smiled, her eyes growing languid under the sensual caress.

“Sensible pair, your parents,” he observed judiciously, turning her hand and kissing her palm. “A love for all life, sweetheart, and no holds barred.” His tongue stroked over her palm, darted between her fingers.

“No holds barred,” Tamsyn murmured, savoring the behind the laughter in his bright-blue gaze. “Now, that sounds most enticing, milord brigadier.”

“We aim to please, ma' am.”