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‘I do not think you so foolish as to throw your life away, Mademoiselle Mallington, no matter how tempting it may be to dispense with mine.’
There was a silence before she said, ‘You climb down first and I will follow.’
His mouth curved cynically. ‘We climb down together, or not at all. You cannot answer my questions with a broken neck.’
He felt her tense beneath him. ‘You are wasting your time, Captain, for I will never answer your questions, no matter how many times you ask them. I would rather take my chances here on this rock face.’
Dammartin understood then why Mademoiselle Mallington had run. The lavender scent of her hair drifted up to fill his nose. ‘And if I tell you there will be no questions tonight, will you come down then?’
Another silence, as if she were contemplating his words, reaching a decision, just a few moments, but time enough for his awareness of the soft curves moulded against him to grow.
She gave a reluctant nod of the head.
They stood like two spoons nestled together, the entire length of their bodies touching. And it was not anger at her escape, or the jubilation of her recapture of which Dammartin was thinking; it was not even the difficulty of the descent they had no choice but to make. For the first time, Dammartin saw Josie not as Mallington’s daughter, but as a woman, and a woman that stirred his blood.
She glanced directly down, looking to see the rock face below. Her body tensed further and she clung all the harder to the rocks, laying her face against them.
He started to move.
‘No, I cannot!’ she said, and he could hear the slight note of panic underlying her words.
‘Mademoiselle Mallington…’
‘It is too high, we cannot…’
‘Just do as I say.’
‘I cannot…please…’
There was just the sound of the wind and the rise and fall of her breathing and the feel of her body beneath his.
‘I will help you and we will reach the ground safely enough.’ He became conscious of where her hips nestled so snugly and felt the stirrings of his body response.
She hesitated before giving a tiny nod.
Josie had thought of nothing other than escape on her way up the cliff, but now she was aware of how very far the ground seemed below, of the loose, insecure surface of the rocks and the wind that pulled at both her and Dammartin. In the darkness she could not see what was safe to grip with her hands, and the skirt of her dress hid her view of her feet and where she might place them. A wave of panic swept through her and she thought that she might be stuck there, unable to move either up or down, but then the French Captain said that he would help her. He edged her to movement and the panic was gone. Slowly they began to descend the rock face.
The warm press of his body and the clean masculine smell of him pulled her mind from the danger of the rocks beneath. He was gentle, encouraging her with quiet words when she struggled to place her feet, coaxing her to keep moving when she thought she could move no more. There was no anger, no harshness, no danger, and, ironically, as they risked their lives to reach the ground, she felt safer with him now than she had ever done. It did not make sense. She did not know this new Dammartin.
She heard his exhalation of breath as they made it to the ground. The cold rushed in against her back as he moved away, opening the space between them. She turned, and was able to see him properly for the first time. Words of gratitude hovered on her lips, but she bit them back, not understanding why she wanted to thank him for saving her, when in truth he was the enemy who had just destroyed her chance of escape.
For a moment Dammartin just stood there by the foot of the slope; the weak silvery moonlight exposing the dark slash of his scar, the lean hard planes sculpting his face, and the rugged squareness of his jaw. Shadow obscured half his face, making it impossible for Josie to read his expression, but there was something in the way he was looking at her, something in his stance, that made her wonder if this was indeed the same man from whom she had run. Her gaze dropped to hide her confusion and her feeling of vulnerability.
‘You do not need to take me back,’ she said, ‘you could say that you did not find me. It is a plausible story.’
He gave a cynical laugh and shook his head. ‘What part of this do you not understand, mademoiselle? That you would not survive out here alone, or that I do not lose my prisoners?’
The arrogance of his words rankled with her, urging her pride to deny the truth in his answer. ‘I would survive very well, if you would let me.’
‘With no weapon, no shelter, no means to make fire, no food or water?’ he mocked. ‘And what of guerrillas and bandits? You think you can take them on single-handed?’
‘As a woman travelling alone, I would present no threat to any such men. They would be unlikely to harm me. I am British.’
‘You think they care about that?’ Dammartin raised an eyebrow.
Josie’s indignation rose. ‘I would have managed well enough.’
‘You are a fool if you think so—’ his eyes narrowed slightly ‘—and you would be a bigger fool to try a further escape.’
‘You cannot stop me,’ she retaliated. ‘I swear I will be long gone before you are anywhere close to Ciudad Rodrigo.’
The wolf howl sounded again, and in the moonlight Dammartin transformed once more to a sinister mode. ‘No, mademoiselle,’ he said softly, ‘you are much mistaken in that belief.’
All of Josie’s fear flooded back at the certainty in his voice.
She looked at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do, aware only that he had won, and that her failure would cost her dearly when he got her back to the camp.
There was the sound of the wind, and of quietness.
‘Please,’ she said, and hoped that he would not hear the desperation in her voice.
The scree crunched beneath his boots as he came to stand before her. ‘I will not leave you out here.’
Her eyes searched the shadow of his face and thought she saw something of the harshness drop away.
‘No more questions this night.’ He reached out and, taking her arm, pulled her from where she leaned against the slope.
He led her across to the great chestnut horse that stood waiting so patiently, his grip light but unbreakable around her arm, releasing her only long enough to mount and lift her up before him. She was sitting sideways, holding on to the front of the saddle with her left hand, and trying not to hold on to Dammartin with her right
Dammartin looked pointedly at where the hand rested upon her skirts. ‘We shall be travelling at speed.’
She gave a nod. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘As you will, mademoiselle.’
As they reached the surface of the road, the horse began to canter, and Josie gripped suddenly at Dammartin to stop herself from being thrown from the saddle. By the time the canter became a gallop, Josie was clinging tight to the French Captain’s chest, while he secured her in place with an anchoring arm around her waist.
Stars shone like a thousand diamond chips scattered over a black velvet sky. The silver sickle of the moon bathed all in its thin magical light, revealing the road ahead that would lead them back to the French camp.
For Josie there would be no escape.
Dammartin swigged from the hip flask, the brandy burning a route down to his stomach. The fire burned low before them, and most of the men had already retired for the night. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the flask to Lamont.
‘The men were taking bets on whether you would find her.’ Lamont took a gulp of the brandy before returning the flask.
‘Did you win?’ asked Dammartin.
‘Of course,’ replied the little Sergeant with a smile, and patted his pocket. ‘I know you too well, my friend.’
They sat quietly for a few minutes, the sweet smell of Lamont’s pipe mingling pleasantly with that of the brandy, the logs cracking and shifting upon the fire.
‘She has courage, the little mademoiselle.’ It was Lamont who broke the silence.
‘She does,’ agreed Dammartin, thinking of Josie halfway up that rock face, and the way she had defied him to the end. He glanced towards the tents.
Lamont followed his captain’s eyes, before returning his gaze to the glow of the burning logs. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘Take her to Ciudad Rodrigo as I am commanded.’
‘I mean, this night.’
‘What does one do with any prisoner who has attempted to escape?’ Dammartin poked at the embers of the fire with a stick.
‘She is gently bred, and a woman. You would not…?’ Lamont’s words petered out in uncertainty.
There was a silence in which Dammartin looked at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are too much your father’s son.’
Dammartin smiled at his old friend, and fitted the top back on to his hip flask, before slipping it into his pocket. ‘But she is too much Mallington’s daughter.’
There was the soft breath of the wind while both men stared wordlessly into the fire.
‘Why did she run, Pierre? The girl is no fool; she must have realised her chance of survival was slim?’
‘She was afraid.’ Dammartin’s gaze did not shift from the warm orange glow of the dying fire as he remembered Mademoiselle Mallington’s face in the moonlight as she stood at the foot of the slope. He had felt the tremor in her body, heard the fear beneath the defiance in her words. I will never answer your questions, no matter how many times you ask them. He heard the whisper of them even now. ‘Afraid of interrogation.’
Lamont gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘There is nothing of any use she can tell us now.’
‘I would not be so certain of that.’
‘Pierre…’ the older man chided.
‘I will question her again,’ interrupted Dammartin. ‘But her only fear need be what answers she will spill.’
‘And when we reach Ciudad Rodrigo, what then?’
‘Then she is no longer my problem,’ said Dammartin.
Lamont sucked at his pipe for a few moments, as if weighing Dammartin’s answer. ‘It is a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo.’
‘Do not worry, Claude,’ Dammartin gave Lamont a clap on the back. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington will give us no more trouble. I will make certain of that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sleep well, my old friend.’ And began to make his way across the small distance to where the officers’ tents were pitched.
‘And you, my captain,’ said Lamont softly, as he sat by the fire and watched Dammartin disappear beneath the canvas of his tent.
* * *
The girl was sitting at the little table, busy working her hair into a plait when Dammartin entered the tent. She jumped to her feet, her hair abandoned, the ribbon fluttering down to lie forgotten upon the ground sheet. From the corner of his eye he could see a white frilled nightdress spread out over the covers of his bed.
‘What are you doing here, Captain Dammartin?’ she demanded, her face peaked and shocked.
‘Retiring to bed.’
Her eyes widened with indignation and the unmistakable flicker of fear. ‘In my tent?’
‘The tent is mine.’ He walked over to the small table and chair.
Even beneath the lantern light he could see the blush that swept her cheeks. ‘Then I should not be here, sir.’ Hurrying over to the bed, she slipped her feet into her boots sitting neatly by its side, before grabbing up the nightdress and rolling it swiftly to a ball. ‘There has clearly been some kind of misunderstanding. If you would be so kind as to direct me to the women’s tent.’
‘You are a prisoner, mademoiselle, not a camp follower. Besides, the women’s tent is within the camp of the infantry, not my dragoons. As a prisoner of the 8th, you stay with me.’
‘Then you can show me the tent in which I am to stay the night.’ She stood facing him squarely, clutching the nightdress in a crumpled mass like a shield before her, ready to do battle.
‘You are already within that tent.’ He turned away and began to unbutton his jacket.
‘Indeed, I am not, sir!’ she exclaimed with force, and he could see the colour in her cheeks darken. ‘What manner of treatment is this? You cannot seriously expect that I will spend the night with you!’ Her nostrils flared. She stared at him as if she were some great warrior queen.
‘You speak of expectations, mademoiselle. Do you expect to be left overnight all alone, so that you may try again to escape?’
She gave a shake of her head, and the loose blonde plait hanging down against her breast began to unwind. ‘I would try no such thing. The night is too dark, and I have no torch.’
‘These things did not stop you this evening.’
‘There was still daylight then.’
‘Hardly,’ he said, and shrugging off his jacket, hung it over the back of the wooden chair by the table.
‘I give you my word that I will not try to escape this night.’
‘Only this night?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘It is this night of which we are speaking.’
‘So you are planning another attempt tomorrow.’
‘No!’
‘Tomorrow night, then?’
‘Very well, I give you my word that I will not attempt another escape.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘So now will you arrange for another tent?’
‘Your word?’ He heard his voice harden as the memories came flooding back unbidden, the grief and revenge bitter within his mouth. He gave an angry, mirthless laugh. ‘But how can I trust that when the word of a Mallington is meaningless.’
‘How dare you?’ she exclaimed, and he could see the fury mounting in her eyes.
He smiled a grim determined smile. ‘Most easily, mademoiselle, I assure you.’
‘I have nothing more to say to you, sir.’ She spun on her heel, and began to stride towards the tent flap.
