Violet

Chapter Five

THE STEADY BOOMING OF THE GUNS BESIEGING THE WALLS OF the Spanish town of Badajos drowned all other sound as the cavalcade approached the town standing on a hill in the midst of a flat plain. The sky was metallic, clouds hanging low over the gray earth, creating a uniform colourlessness, broken only by the scarlet tunics of the cavalrymen.

Julian, riding ahead of the troop, was watching Gabriel and Violette, as usual riding off to one side on slightly higher ground. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their gestures it seemed they were engaged in some altercation. The girl was gesticulating fiercely, her body, fluid in the saddle as she made her points. The giant Gabriel in contrast seemed to exude a rocklike obstinacy, occasionally shaking his head in a sharp, brief negative.

They were a two-hour ride from headquarters in the Portuguese border town of Elvas, and Julian would be bringing in his flower just within the five days he'd set himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't bringing in a submissive, intimidated prisoner ready to have her petals plucked, but a vigorous, self-determining mercenary who might be induced to sell her secrets, but certainly wouldn't meekly divulge them for the asking. It would be interesting to see what Wellington made of her… and of his colonel's part in the play.

Julian grimaced. He'd have to find an explanation for how he'd lost his prisoner and had to agree to a negotiated settlement. The truth was far too mortifying. He could only hope that the brigand would keep her mouth shut about that riverside madness.

He became aware that the two were cantering toward him, Gabriel was not looking happy; the girl's expression was neutral. They reached him and turned their horses to ride alongside him.

“While I'm gone, I shall hold you responsible for the bairn, Englishman,” Gabriel announced gruffly, his hand, in what seemed to Julian very pointed fashion, resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Never you mind, but you're responsible, mark that well.”

Julian shook his head with a half laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to be responsible for the actions of La Violette? Good God, man, I know my limitations.”

“Not her actions, but her safety,” Gabriel declared before Tamsyn could voice her own indignation.

“And I suppose it doesn't occur to you that one has something to do with the other?” Julian said acidly.

“I am responsible for my own actions,” Tamsyn said impatiently. “And my own safety, Gabriel, you're being an old woman.”

“El Baron left your safety in my hands.” There was a mulish set to the giant's mouth. “And if y'are going off on this frolic on your own, little girl, then I'll keep faith with your father as I see fit.” He glared at St. Simon. “So, English Colonel, any harm comes to one hair of her head, and I'll cleave your head from your shoulders.”

Tamsyn raised her eyes heavenward. “No harm is going to come to me in the English headquarters, Gabriel.”

“No, that I'll guarantee,” Julian said, deciding to ignore Gabriel's extremely unfriendly threat. “For as long as she's a guest of headquarters. But if she steps outside Elvas, then it's out of my hands. I'm no nursemaid.”

“And I don't need one,” Tamsyn snapped. “Or a bodyguard. Do be off now, Gabriel. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back.”

“And I've your word you'll not move from Elvas until I return?” He glowered, clearly very unhappy.

“You have it.” She leaned over and lightly brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her smile soft, her eyes warm. “Don't fret, now. I'll be quite safe, and you know this has to be done.”

Gabriel sighed. “If you say so, little girl.” He wheeled his charger and cantered away, raising a hand in farewell.

“Poor Gabriel, he really doesn't want to go,” Tamsyn said, still with that fond smile. “He can't bear to let me out of his sight, not since…” She stopped, her eyes clouding, the smile vanishing.

“Since…?” Julian prompted.

Tamsyn shrugged. “History, milord colonel.” She shaded her eyes, gazing across the plain to the walls of Badajos. The ground beneath them was shaking now with the bombardment, and the whine of shells from the returning French fire could clearly be heard.

“Where's he going?”

Again she shrugged. “Just to fetch something. We're getting dose.”

It seemed that Violette had said all she intended to about Gabriel's mysterious journey. He nodded. “We're concentrating the bombardment on the bastions of Santa Maria and La Trinidad.”

“How soon does Wellington expect Soult to get here from Cadiz?”

“You are well informed,” he said with an ironic raised eyebrow. The impending arrival of the French marshal to relieve Badajos was one of Wellington's main anxieties.

“Of course. I fight this war, too, Colonel.”

“You fight for your own gain,” he said bluntly.

Her eyes flashed. “As does your army, sir. Only the partisans fight simply for their country, and I fight with them.”

“You deny you sell your services?” he demanded. She gave him a look of supreme contempt. “To those who can afford them, I sell them. To those who can't, I give them. Sound business principles, milord colonel. And war is business, as you damn well know. Men get rich in wartime.”

“Profiteers,” he stated in disgust.

“And what are you in it for, English milord?” she asked with the same contempt. “Nothing as vulgar as wealth, of course. So what is it? Glory… honor… rank?”

Julian made no response. It was true he pursued all those goals, but he fought for the honor of his country, for loyalty and patriotism. He wasn't going to explain such concepts to a mercenary who would only mock them.

They were skirting the trenches now outside the walls, and the sound of the bombardment was deafening. Tamsyn's Arab was skittish, tossing his head, lifting his feet high, seeming to pick his way with delicacy over the soft, rain-soaked ground,· The· cavalry horses, on the other hand, were untroubled by the noise and the uneven terrain and plodded steadily on.

When a shell burst a few feet from them, throwing up a spume of mud, Cesar whinnied in high-pitched fright and plunged sideways. Julian automatically reached for Tamsyn's bridle to steady the animal.

“Take your hand off!” she commanded with such ferocity his hand dropped immediately. Expertly, she brought the animal under control, speaking to him softly in Spanish, and when he was quiet, turned again to the colonel, her eyes spurting flame. “How dare you presume to touch my bridle?”

“I'm sorry.” He was genuinely taken aback by her fury. “I'm used to riding with my sister. She's not a natural rider, and I have to be on the alert all the time.”

“Well, I am not your sister,” she declared, still furious.

“Fortunately, in the circumstances,” he murmured, unable to help himself, a wicked glimmer in his eye.

Tamsyn glared at him for a minute, then went into a peal of laughter. “How right you are, Colonel. There are some vices too heinous even for mercenary bandits. “

His amusement, misplaced as it was, died as quickly as it had arisen. “We will not speak of that incident again, if you please,” he said with an awkward formality.

Tamsyn glanced sideways at his set face, and a mischievous smile twitched her mouth. “You'd not wish your commander in chief to know you'd been dallying with a prisoner, I daresay.”

“No, damn you, I would not!” he snapped.

“And you wouldn't wish it to occur again?” she mused. “How unflattering of you, Colonel. I confess I would enjoy a repetition.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but I would not,” he stated flatly, turning his horse aside. “Sergeant, you and the men may leave us here and return to the brigade. I intend to cross the river by the east pontoon.”

“Right you are, sir.” The sergeant barked an order to the troop behind him, and they cantered off toward the city of tents forming the army's encampment between the Guadiana and the siege works. The colonel and his companion rode along the river bank toward one of the pontoon bridges connecting the siege workings with headquarters at Elvas.

Tamsyn nodded to herself. Somehow she didn't think the colonel was telling the truth. How could anyone, having once enjoyed that explosion of ecstasy, not hanker for more. Cecile's voice spoke in her memory, soft with sensual laughter, telling her daughter that lovemaking was an appetite that grew whereon it fed. Tamsyn could hear the baron's answering chuckle, see his dark hawk's eyes fixed on her mother's face as if he would devour her.

A familiar wave of sorrow washed over her. She didn't resist it, simply waited for it to recede. The grief was for her own loss, since it was not possible to imagine two such joined souls as separated, even in death.

They crossed the pontoon into the small town of Elvas, the guards coming to attention as the colonel passed. The cobbled streets were thronged with soldiers in the green tunics of riflemen or the scarlet of infantry and cavalry; aide-de-camps hurried between command posts; laden commissary drays lumbered through town on their way to supply the troops in the trenches. Cesar shied as a mangy dog darted out of an alley pursued by a tribe of ragged urchins.

“That animal is too high-strung for his own good,” Julian observed as Tamsyn soothed the horse.

“He's not accustomed to towns,” she said, reacting with asperity to this criticism of her beloved Cesar. “He's not used to being surrounded by people. But he'll carry me without flagging for a hundred miles along a mountain track, and he'd outrun any beast you have in your stables, and over any terrain, milord colonel.”

“Doubtless.” He contented himself with the dry observation, wishing she wouldn't call him that, it had such a sardonic ring to it.

He turned his horse aside into the stable yard at the rear of Wellington's headquarters. “Presumably that sensitive beast will behave himself with the grooms here?”

“Cesar has beautiful manners,” she retorted, swinging down to the cobbles with an agile movement that belied her fatigue. A groom came running over, his eyes wide at the sight of the magnificent Arab.

“Eh, that's a beauty an' no mistake, sir,” he said admiringly to the Colonel, his eyes darting curiously to St. Simon's unusual companion.

“Yes, but he's high-strung,” the colonel said. “So be careful with him. I don't want to find myself looking for a replacement.”

“You wouldn't find one,” Tamsyn declared, handing the reins to the groom. “He's unique.” She stroked the animal's neck, murmuring incomprehensible sounds that clearly soothed the horse. “Take him away,” she said to the groom. “He'll be quiet enough now.”

“Let's go.” St. Simon spoke with an abrupt brusqueness. He turned and strode toward a flight of outside stairs at the rear of the wooden building.

Tamsyn followed, aware of her fatigue now as an almost deadening exhaustion. She was in no fit condition to negotiate with Wellington. She needed food and sleep before attempting the audacious task she'd set herself. A lot would depend on what kind of man the English commander in chief proved to be. From what she'd heard, he was of volatile temperament except on the battlefield, capable of flaying his own senior officers in one breath and offering the most urbane and civilized conversation in the next.· He was also known to have a fondness for the female sex. Whether she could capitalize on that remained to be seen. Filthy and bedraggled as she was at the moment, Tamsyn doubted she would create a favorable impression.

At the top of the stairs the colonel opened a door, and they entered a square landing at the head of an internal staircase. The space was set up as an office, and a harassed brigade-major, sitting at a deal table, looked up from the mountain of paper in front of him.

“Colonel.” He came to his feet, saluting. “The Peer will be glad to see you, sir.”

“Fretting, is he?” Julian returned the salute, glancing toward the closed door behind the aide-de-camp.

“Something chronic,” the man said with a rueful grin. “We tried to blow up the dam the Froggies constructed outside the San Pedro bastion and didn't get anywhere, and old Soult's on the march.” Unable to hide his fascination, he scrutinized the small figure standing just behind the colonel and said, “He'll be glad of some good news for once.”

“Mmm.” The colonel contented himself with the brief mumble. “Keep an eye on her,” he said shortly, ignoring Tamsyn's swift indrawn breath, and strode to the door, knocking briskly before entering.

Tamsyn strolled over to a window at the head of the stairs and perched on the broad sill. She regarded the brigade-major thoughtfully; “Does English hospitality run to a glass of wine… or even water? Riding for two days is thirsty work.”

The man looked dismayed, casting a quick glance around as if for assistance.

Tamsyn sighed. “Contrary to appearances, I'm here of my own free will. I assure you I'm not about to run away, and there's not the slightest need to 'keep an eye on me.’”

“But the colonel-”

“To the devil with the colonel,” she said crossly.

“He's in a bad mood, that's all. Now, could you please bring me something to drink?”

The brigade-major rose to his feet, his expression still uncertain. The girl didn't carry herself like any prisoner he'd come across, and the instruction to keep an eye on her was fairly vague… and it was certainly true that Colonel, Lord St. Simon hadn't looked to be in the best of tempers.

He compromised by locking the door to the outside stairs, reasoning that she couldn't use the inside staircase without alerting him, and went downstairs to summon an orderly to bring a carafe of water.

While she waited, Tamsyn looked down on the street. Her observation seemed merely idle, but in fact her eyes were taking in everything, assessing the mood and efficiency of the soldiers as they went about their business. Elvas at the moment closely resembled El Baron's almost military encampments in the mountain villages where she'd grown up, and she knew what she was looking for. On the whole, the atmosphere seemed buoyant, as if the men were comfortable with their present military operation. Of course, the men at headquarters would have a different viewpoint from those entrenched in the parallels before Badajos. Investing a town was generally a grim, frustrating business, and Badajos was holding out much longer than it had any right to. And the longer it held out, the more savage would be its taking.

Tamsyn shuddered, her mouth twisting in disgust.

She knew that the old feudal rules of warfare still applied. If a besieged city surrendered in a gracious and timely fashion once it was clear it couldn't hold out, then its conquerors would be magnanimous. Lf it didn't, it was assumed its inhabitants asked for what they would get when the victorious besiegers poured through the breaches.

Soldiers, she thought. Savage beasts, whatever uniform they wore, whatever righteous cause they would tout. They were all the same.

The aide-de-camp came back, followed by an orderly with a carafe of water and a glass. Tamsyn turned from the window, and the power of the unfocused loathing in her violet eyes made them both draw back for an instant. Then it was gone, and she accepted the glass with a neutral nod of thanks.

Within the commander in chiefs sanctum it was warm, a fire burning in the grate against the dullness of the day. Wellington poured wine for himself and St. Simon. “So you wrested her from Cornichet's hands. Much trouble?”

“Not too much.” Julian sipped his wine. “At least not at that point.”

Wellington raised an eyebrow at this caveat but didn't pursue it. He moved to stand in front of the fire, his back to the cheerful glow. “How much had she told them?”

“Nothing. We arrived in the nick of time… quite literally.” He explained briefly how he'd recovered La Violette. “We were away from there with no casualties and made camp a few hours later.”

He paused. He was coming to the tricky part of his narrative. “The next morning the girl had personal needs to attend to. I escorted her beyond the camp to the river where there was an outcrop of rock. She was tethered by the ankle to my sword belt.” He drank again. Wellington remained silent.

“She has a giant of a bodyguard. A Scotsman. He managed to escape from Cornichet's camp under cover of the fire we'd set. He followed us, and I'm afraid he sprang out at me while I was waiting for Violette to… “

“Quite so.” Wellington waved a hand in comprehension. “He disarmed you?”

Julian nodded morosely. “I was a damn fool.” If you only knew how much of a fool.

“But you still brought her in?”

“Yes, with my assurance that she's free to leave whenever she chooses; but she's prepared to sell her information for the right price.”

“Which is?”

Julian shook his head. “As yet, she hasn't said.”

“And this gigantic bodyguard?”

“She sent him off on some errand. He's to find her here on his return.”

“A mysterious mercenary,” mused the commander.

He rubbed his backside meditatively in the fire's warmth, his eyes resting on the colonel's countenance.

He could read the man's chagrin, his sense of having failed in his mission, although by any standards it was only a technical failure. But Julian St. Simon didn't tolerate failure from anyone and least of all from himself

“Let's invite her in,” he said after a moment. “Hear what she has to say.”

Julian nodded and said slowly, “By the way, she's not quite what you might expect. She's half-English. By some extraordinary quirk of circumstance her mother was Cornish, or so she claims. And gently bred into the bargain.”

Wellington whistled. “A gently bred Englishwoman bedded with a notorious brigand! It's beyond belief” “I agree. But why would she invent such a tale?” Wellington scratched his long, bony nose. “No reason that I can think of”

Julian shrugged his own incomprehension. He strode to the door and opened it. “Violette.”

Tamsyn slid off the windowsill and came over to the door, leaving her empty glass on the brigade-major's desk. She cast the colonel a sideways glance as she brushed past him into the presence of the commander in chief

Wellington inclined his head in a slight bow of greeting, his eyes running over the small figure in her shabby, mud-splattered britches and boots. She still wore her bandolier, her rifle slung over her shoulder, the knife at her belt. And yet, despite this, he thought there was something almost forlorn about her. She seemed very young and very alone as she stood there regarding him with an indefinable air of challenge.

“I understand you have something to sell me,” he stated.

“If the price is right,” she agreed.

“And what is your price?”

Tamsyn shook her head. “Forgive me, but I'd like time to rest before we begin to negotiate. I don't know as yet exactly what you wish me to tell you.”

She cast St. Simon another sidelong glance, one so redolent of sensual languor that it took his breath away. “Perhaps the colonel could show me where I may rest for a while.”

Abruptly his body sang with memory, his blood flowing hot and swift. God's grace, but she could become an addiction.

He had to get away from her, from the dangerous temptation in those wicked violet eyes, in that lean, compact little body.

He'd brought the girl in, his task was over. How Wellington conducted the negotiations was none of his business.

“You'll have to excuse me, I must return to my brigade,” he said frigidly, turning to leave. As he did so, the girl suddenly swayed on her feet, her hand reaching blindly for something to hold on to.

“What is it?” He'd reached her in one stride, encircling her with his arm. Immediately she leaned into him, a tiny, vulnerable figure against his own physical breadth.

Tamsyn closed her eyes, keeping her head bowed against his tunic to hide her satisfaction. Cecile hadn't been exaggerating about the English gentleman’s foolish chivalry. She wanted Lord St. Simon at her side throughout her stay in Elvas, and she was quite willing to resort to trickery to achieve that purpose.

“What is it?” he repeated. “Are you ill?”

“I'm just very tired,” she said, her voice weak. “I'm sorry… so silly of me, I feel quite faint.”

“Come to the fire.” Wellington was all concern and consideration. “Take a glass of wine, that'll revive you.” He poured a glass, looking worriedly over his shoulder as the colonel half carried the girl to a chair by the fire.

“Here we are.” Wellington handed her the glass.

“Drink it down, now… that's the ticket.” He nodded approvingly as obediently she sipped.

She raised her head and smiled at him, a faint, tremulous little smile. “So kind… thank you, sir.”

Julian was still leaning over her, one arm at her back.

Suddenly he withdrew it as if he'd been scalded. The little Diablillo was up to her tricks again, he was convinced of it. He moved away and stood resting one arm along the mantelpiece, regarding the drooping, bravely smiling bandit with a sardonic glare. What the devil was she up to?

“Julian, we must find her a comfortable billet at once. I'll ask young Sanderson what he can come up with.” Wellington bustled to the door to consult with the brigade-major, whose main task was to fix and contrive and organize for his commanding officer, however bizarre the circumstances.

“What are you up to?” the colonel demanded softly.

“You're not fooling me with this swooning-maiden act, Violette.”

Tamsyn raised her eyes, her expression hurt. “I don't know what you can mean. I can't even remember when I last slept in a bed. I'm exhausted.”

She had every reason to be, and yet he remained unconvinced.

“Sanderson… a remarkable young fellow… knows just the billet, hard by the hospital.” Rubbing his hands, Wellington came back to the fire. “He says there's a pleasant woman there who'll attend to you, my dear. And when you've rested, you'll dine with me and m'staff.”

His eyes rested on her face, and they were sharp and shrewd despite his apparent geniality. “We'll discuss how we can assist each other a little later.”

“You're too kind, sir,” she said with a weary smile. “Julian, you'll see her settled and bring her back here to dine,” the commander in chief said, suddenly brisk.

“I really should return to my brigade, sir.”

“Yes… yes, of course. But later, man, later.” There was nothing for it. Julian sighed and acceded with a curt nod in Tamsyn's direction. “Come.”

She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, but Lord St. Simon seemed to have lost his chivalrous instincts. He remained standing by the fireplace, his unwavering gaze as sardonic as before. Oh, well, Tamsyn reflected with an inner shrug, she'd achieved what she'd intended for the moment. Wellington regarded her with sympathy rather than hostility, and the colonel was still at her side.

She offered Wellington another feeble smile of thanks and tottered to the door, the colonel on her heels. Her demeanor changed once they were outside, the door firmly closed behind them. She glanced up at her companion with a mischievous wink.

He inhaled sharply, then spun around to address the brigade-major. “Lieutenant, where am I to find this lodging?”

“A widow called Braganza, sir,” Sanderson said.

“The whitewashed cottage beside the hospital. I've sent an orderly to alert her, so she'll be expecting you.” He stared with now unabashed curiosity at Violette. “She speaks only Portuguese. Does… does…”

“Yes, of course I do,” Tamsyn said with a touch of impatience at what struck her as an absurd question. She'd spent her life roaming across the borders of Portugal, Spain, and France.

Julian said nothing, merely strode ahead of her down the stairs and out into the street. Tamsyn had to run to catch up with him. “Don't go so fast, I really am exhausted.”

“You may pick some other gull for your tricks,” he said tautly. “I don't know what the devil you're up to, and I don't give a damn. The sooner I can wash my hands of you, the happier I shall be.”

“Temper, temper,” Tamsyn murmured. “I wish I knew what I'd done to arouse it. It seems most unjust to me, but then I suppose you're one of those people of uncertain temper who vent their frustrations whenever the whim takes them. I've heard of such people, although I count myself fortunate that until now I haven't had many dealings-”

“Have you finished?” He interrupted this meandering muse, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or scream his vexation to the four winds.

“I hadn't,” she said, sounding aggrieved. “But if you don't care for plain speaking… “ She shrugged.

“On the contrary,” he declared, tight-lipped. ''I'm something of an exponent myself Do you wish to hear a little?”

Tamsyn didn't answer. She sidestepped a puddle with an agile leap that made nonsense of her claims to exhaustion and said cheerfully, “That must be the widow's house up ahead on the left. It's the only whitewashed one on the street.”

Senhora Braganza, well accustomed to the sight of women partisans, showed little amazement at Tamsyn's appearance. Insisting they inspect the accommodations, she showed them upstairs to a small whitewashed chamber under the eaves.

“This will do beautifully,” Tamsyn said, interrupting the widow's voluble description of the chamber's amenities. “All I need is a bed. And hot water.”

The widow returned downstairs to see to the water, and Julian, who'd been standing by the window looking out on the street in front of the cottage, said brusquely, ''I'll be on my way.”

“Oh, don't be in such a hurry.” Tamsyn went swiftly to the door, leaning against it, barring his way. She smiled at him. “Why so prudish, milord colonel? We have the time, we have even a bed.”

“I do not have the inclination,” he declared harshly. “Move aside.”

She shook her head, that mischievous smile in her eyes again. She tossed her rifle onto the bed and with a deft movement shrugged off the bandolier, letting it fall to the floor. Then her hands were at her belt and he seemed powerless to move, watching as if only his eyes were alive, imprisoned in a body of stone, as she pushed off her britches and began to unbutton her shirt. The small, perfect breasts were revealed, their rosy crowns pertly erect. She moved away from the door and stepped toward him, her eyes never leaving his face.

He put his hands on her breasts, feeling how they filled his palms. He gazed down at the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath the milk-white skin. The pulse at her throat was beating fast, and the intricate silver locket quivered against her flesh.

Tamsyn didn't move, merely held herself still for his touch as his hands slid down her rib cage, spanned the slender waist, slipped to her back, his fingers insinuating themselves into the waist of her drawers, creeping down over the taut roundness of her buttocks.

“Goddamn it, girl,” he said, his voice husky in the quiet, dim room. “Goddamn it, girl, what are you doing to me?”

“It's more a case of what are you doing to me?” she said as his hands squeezed her backside, pressing her against his loins· where his flesh thrust iron hard against the constraint of his britches.

The sound of heavy footsteps laboring up the wooden stairs outside broke his enchantment. The mist of passion left his bright-blue eyes, and he pulled his hands loose from her skin as if she were a burning brand.

And then he was gone from the room, brushing past Senhora Braganza as she toiled up the stairs with a steaming copper jug, and out into the lowering afternoon filled with the incessant sound of the bombardment.

He walked fast to the stables to reclaim his horse, and the groom quailed at the blue blazing light in the colonel's eyes beneath the thick red-gold eyebrows, and the close-gripped mouth in the grim set of his jaw. He rode out of Elvas and into the encampment to his own tent and the reassuring sanity of his own men. He must be losing his mind. She was a grubby, manipulative, unfeminine, mercenary hellion, and she stirred him to the root of his being.

Tamsyn watched him from the window as he strode down the street as if all the devils in hell were on his heels. “How very ungallant of you, milord colonel,” she murmured to herself “Whatever can you be afraid of? Not of me, surely?”

A tiny smile quirked her lips as she turned from the window to discuss with the widow Braganza the sorry condition of her clothes.