She got to her feet, pulled on her borrowed clothes and began to fold up her bedding.
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle Mallington.’
The voice from the tent flap made her jump and she thought for a moment that it was Dammartin. Her heart began to race and the blanket that she had been folding slipped from her fingers. She turned to face him.
But it was not Dammartin that stood there.
‘Lieutenant Molyneux.’ She was caught unawares, her thoughts still lingering with Dammartin. ‘Is there any news of my portmanteau?’ she asked, smoothing back her hair with a flustered hand and wondering why the Lieutenant was here. Only Dammartin strode straight into the tent. ‘Unfortunately not, mademoiselle. It is not easy to lose all of one’s possessions.’
‘No, but Rosa has been kind enough to lend me some clothing.’ Josie suddenly remembered that she was, at this very minute, wearing the red-and-black dress, and without the protection of her cloak. She darted a rather horrified glance at the Lieutenant, but he was looking at the bedding she had been folding and his expression was kindly. Molyneux was too much the gentleman to stare at what the dress revealed.
‘The Captain has sent me to collect your possessions to be transported this morning, mademoiselle.’
‘Of course, Lieutenant. I am afraid that my clothes are still damp.’
‘There has been little chance for them to dry.’
She sat the clothing on top of the blankets and pillow and passed the pile to Molyneux.
‘At least it does not rain this morning.’ He smiled. ‘You see, you are making me like the English with all this talk of the weather,’ he teased.
Molyneux’s kind lightheartedness dispelled her tension. She felt herself smile in response as she opened the tent flap for him to leave. Across the field, Dammartin was talking to Lamont. The smile fled her face. Her heart began to race as her eyes met his. The expression on his face was hard and angry. All of the darkness was back, and she wondered that he could be the same man who had kissed her with such passion and tenderness last night. And as she looked, he coldly turned his gaze from hers.
Dammartin, together with half his men, watched Molyneux leave Mademoiselle Mallington’s tent, the Lieutenant’s arms piled high with her clothing and bedding. He saw, as did the men, the way she held the tent flap open for him, and smiled so sweetly. His eyes noted how very well the fully exposed red-and-black dress showed off her figure. The men’s tongues were practically hanging out over the sight of her as she stood so boldly in the entrance of the tent.
The tent flap had barely closed before Molyneux managed to drop half her clothing upon the wetness of the ground; when he had gathered it back up again, Mademoiselle Mallington’s shift was clearly displayed on the top, while one of her stockings dangled precariously from the side.
‘Captain,’ said Molyneux, when he reached him. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington asked me to carry this.’
‘Then carry it,’ said Dammartin coolly.
From among the troopers someone laughed.
‘See to your horses,’ he snapped at them, and the men exchanged glances as they moved to follow his command.
It was late afternoon when they had set up their camp for the night near Hoyos. The light had gone by the time the meal was ready, paltry as it was—a thin stew of onions with the odd lump of meat. Supplies were running low and the foraging parties had come back with little. Having finished the dregs of the insubstantial meal, Dammartin was sitting at his desk within the shared tent, writing his report. The men would go hungry again tonight. He had just dipped his pen into the ink when Lamont appeared.
‘Sir.’
Dammartin glanced up at him, and, seeing the expression on his sergeant’s face, laid the pen down within its holder. ‘What is it, Claude?’ he asked quietly.
Lamont’s voice lowered. ‘Lieutenant Molyenux is within your tent with Mademoiselle Mallington.’
‘They are alone together?’
Lamont nodded.
Dammartin quirked an eyebrow. ‘It is up to Mademoiselle Mallington how she conducts herself.’
‘There is something that you should see, sir.’
Dammartin stilled. Lamont would not have come to fetch him if it were not necessary. He gave a grim nod and followed the older man outside.
He could hear the men’s appreciative murmurs as they stared. His gaze followed round to what their attention was so riveted upon. His tent was light and illuminated, the canvas the perfect screen on which the silhouettes of those within were projected. Josephine and Molyneux were standing close. They were talking, and Josephine had taken Molyneux’s hand up between hers. Her head was bent as if she would kiss his hand. It was a most intimate gesture and one that roused a fury in Dammartin.
He had thought her an innocent. He had thought that the attraction that had exploded between them was unique and special. The shadow show playing out on Mademoiselle Mallington’s tent showed him that he had been wrong. His lip snarled in disgust at his own weakness. She was Mallington’s daughter, in truth.
He became aware of his men’s attention, that they were watching to see what he would do. And his pride burned sore. He wanted to go in there and pulverise Molyneux’s perfect handsome face. He wanted to call Josephine Mallington the whore that she was.
‘Captain.’ Lamont’s voice was low, his hand touched lightly against Dammartin’s arm to stay him.
‘The men are expecting a show, Claude. It would be a pity to disappoint them.’
‘Pierre,’ Lamont whispered with urgency. ‘Think how you do this.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Dammartin, and his mouth curved to a hard cynical smile. ‘I shall not give them quite the show they are expecting.’ And with that he walked towards his tent.
Chapter Ten
Josie was adjusting Molyneux’s hand within her own directly beneath the bright hanging light of the lantern to peer closer at his palm.
‘I feel so foolish to bother you with such a trivial complaint,’ said the Lieutenant sheepishly.
‘I am afraid that I still cannot see it properly, sir.’
‘The light, it is poor and I fear I have driven the wretched thing deeper when I tried to pull it out. I would not ask, but I fear the infection will grow.’ He looked up at her, anxiety clear in his velvet grey eyes. ‘It is my sabre hand.’
‘Do not worry, I will fetch the splinter out for you.’ She smiled wryly.
‘Perhaps you think me less than a man to worry over such a small thing, but I watched my good friend die because of a dirty splinter of wood. He thought it nothing, and left it where it was. Two months later, he was dead from a poisoning of the blood.’
Josie’s heart softened at his words. ‘I am sorry that you lost your friend.’ Her eyes met his briefly in compassion before she turned her focus to his hand once more. The small sewing needle between her fingers glinted in the light. ‘Now hold still and I will soon have the splinter out.’
He smiled at her.
She bent her head and concentrated on a delicate probing of the Lieutenant’s hand with the needle. It was strange to notice that, as she held on to Molyneux’s hand, his touch elicited none of the same reactions that she had experienced with Dammartin. Had it been Dammartin’s hand held so gently between her own…
‘Mademoiselle Mallington and Lieutenant Molyneux.’ There was no mistaking the steel beneath the quiet control of the voice.
Josie gave a gasp and jumped, inadvertently pricking Molyneux with the needle.
Dammartin stood within the tent. The line of his jaw was hard and uncompromising, and his eyes filled with a deadly darkness.
Molyneux paled and drew his hand swiftly from Josie’s grasp.
‘Captain Dammartin,’ she said, her heart suddenly racing. ‘You startled me.’
‘So I see, mademoiselle.’ His voice was harsh.
Outside the murmur of voices had gone; the camp was in total silence.
‘Lieutenant Molyneux has a splinter in his
hand. I am in the process of removing it. If you do not mind, I shall have it out shortly.’
‘Please, go ahead. Do not allow my presence to stop you,’ said Dammartin. ‘I am content to wait.’
Josie ignored his sarcastic tone. She reached for Molyneux’s hand, conscious of Dammartin’s scrutiny.
‘It is no matter, mademoiselle.’ Molyneux stepped away, looking awkwardly at Dammartin. ‘Capitaine,’ he said, and, with a salute, hurriedly left.
Josie was alone with Dammartin.
She stood unmoving beneath the lantern light, the small needle flashing silver in her hand. She could sense his tension. It was latent, coiled, ready to spring, the calm before the storm. She did not know what had happened to make him so angry, yet she had the unassailable notion that it was related to Molyneux and her removing the splinter. Very carefully, she set the needle down upon the tabletop.
‘Is there something wrong, sir?’ She forced her voice to stay calm and low.
He walked towards her and stopped where Molyneux had stood.
Josie’s heart was thudding so hard it seemed to echo within the silence that surrounded them.
He glanced at the table to where the needle lay. ‘You were removing a splinter?’
‘Yes. What else did you think that I was doing?’
Every angle of his face sharpened. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The scar was livid against his cheek. Everything about him was dark and predatory and dangerous. ‘What else indeed might a woman standing so close to a man and holding his hand within her own be doing? Every dragoon in this company has been asking himself that question this evening. The lantern, it lights your silhouettes so well.’
She flushed scarlet at his implication. ‘I have done nothing improper.’ Even as she said it, the realisation of just how her actions might have been misconstrued was dawning on her. But beneath Dammartin’s cold, arrogant stare she was not about to admit any such thing. ‘And if the lantern has shown my actions so clearly to all, then every man here should know that.’
His eyes were on her, hard and disbelieving, razing all of her defences. She made to move, but as she did so he reached up above their heads and quickly extinguished the lantern. The darkness was sudden and complete.
Josie gasped, and froze where she was. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I do not mean to continue the night’s entertainment for the men.’
The thick blackness that surrounded them hid him from her, but every inch of her body tingled with awareness of his proximity.
‘This is madness. You cannot mean to continue a conversation in the dark.’
‘I do not mean to continue a conversation at all, Mademoiselle.’
The skin at the nape of Josie’s neck prickled. The drum of warning beat through her veins. She licked her lips nervously, and whispered, ‘Then you should leave.’
She heard him move closer.
‘But I am not yet finished with you, mademoiselle,’ he said quietly.
A shiver rippled through her, and she felt her nipples harden as if a rush of cold air had blown through her. ‘If you will not go, then I will,’ she replied and, thrusting out her arms before her, she began to step hesitantly through the darkness towards where there was some light at the entrance of the tent.
There was the tread of his boots, and the sensation of movement. As the panic began to rise, she quickened her steps and reached out towards the tent flap.
His arm fastened around her waist and Josie knew that there would be no running away from this.
‘No,’ she whispered, but whether it was to Dammartin or herself, she did not know.
He came up behind her, pulling her closer until her back was snug against him, her buttocks at his groin. She felt his palm splay over her abdomen, holding her in place, while his other hand closed over her breast.
While his hands imprisoned her, she felt the moist touch of his mouth on the skin at the side of her neck, where her pulse throbbed so violently. The touch became a kiss, a slow tantalising kiss that grew hungrier and hungrier until his lips were sucking her and his tongue was lapping her as if he would draw the very lifeblood from her veins. And as his kiss possessed her, his hand slid lower down her belly, stroking and teasing it went, creeping ever closer to that most secret of her woman’s places. His fingers roved over one breast as if the cotton of Rosa’s chemise were not there, feeling her, claiming her, circling her taut and straining nipple.
She gasped aloud, amazed both at his audacity and the sensations flowing within her. Somewhere on the outer recesses of her mind a faint voice whispered that this was wrong, that she should stop, but Josie barely heard it. She was quivering beneath his touch, trembling with the need for it never to cease. And when his fingers loosed her buttons, and freed the pins from her hair, she barely noticed, just turned to him and let him take her, kissing his lips, breathing his breath.
He pulled the bodice of her dress and chemise down, his hands cupping her breasts though the linen of her shift, stroking them, petting them, rolling her hardened nipples between his fingers as his mouth moved against hers. And just when she thought the pleasure could not be any greater, he dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him, to lay her beneath him. She heard his breath as ragged as hers, felt the urgency that strained throughout the entirety of his body as his mouth traced lower to close hot and wet over her breast, devouring her through the thin material.
The sensation was so overwhelming, so ecstatic that she was endlessly gasping. There was the sound of linen tearing, and her shift separated them no more. He suckled her bare breasts, first one and then the other, his mouth ranging over their mounds until it fastened upon her nipples, to suck and lick and tease. Josie groaned and arched beneath him, threading her fingers through his hair, pressing him to her that he might never stop. And still it was not enough, still she wanted more of him.
‘Oh, Pierre!’ she moaned, feeling him nudge her legs open while his mouth stayed busy against her breast.
Then he seemed to catch himself, to stop. She felt his face come up to hers, his breath hot against her mouth.
‘No,’ he whispered in disbelief. He was panting hard and she could feel the slight tremor that ran through him.
Through the darkness she sensed his face move back to stare at her. ‘God help me.’ His voice was low and gritty and filled with agony.
Gentle fingers stroked her cheek as he collapsed down to lay by her side, holding her gently against him as his lips dropped small, isolated kisses to her forehead.
‘God help us both, Josephine Mallington,’ he said softly into her hair, and Josie lay in his arms, knowing that his prayer was futile.
Her tight, sensitised nipples still moist with his saliva and her unsated desire were the evidence. She craved his kiss. She needed his touch. Josie had stepped beyond redemption. Pierre Dammartin was no longer her enemy, but her temptation, and it made a mockery of the sacrifice in Telemos, of her father’s death and those of the men of the 60th; it made a mockery of everything in which Josie believed.
Dammartin’s men saw him leave the English mademoiselle’s tent. They saw, too, the harshness of his face and they wondered what had happened within those canvas walls. Would the Captain be prepared to share the woman with his lieutenant? From his face it did not seem so. The men began to take bets on the outcome.
The first thing that Dammartin saw on leaving Josephine Mallington was Molyneux sitting over at the farthest side of the fire. The two men’s gaze met and held for a few seconds until the Lieutenant looked away.
Dammartin strolled to stand by the fire directly opposite to where Molyneux sat near to Lamont.
Lamont quietly slipped away to stand by some troopers.
Molyneux got to his feet, looking nervously across at Dammartin. He cleared his throat. ‘She offered to remove a splinter from my hand, sir.’
Dammartin said nothing.
‘She was most insistent. I did not wish to be rude. She fetched the needle and
before I knew it…’ His voice trailed off.
Still Dammartin said nothing, just looked at Molyneux as if he would tear the Lieutenant’s head from his body.
‘I did not realise that she…that you…’ Molyneux cleared his throat again.
Dammartin paused long enough to make Molyneux squirm. ‘What are you still doing within my line of vision, Lieutenant?’
A moment’s hesitation and then Molyneux saluted and walked quickly away.
Dammartin stood there alone for a few moments, staring into the flames of the fire, then he turned and headed towards the stables, and not long after, the sound of his horse was heard galloping away into the night.
Josie had slept little, but she was up and ready early, sitting on the chair by Dammartin’s table within his tent. Her stomach was churning, and she both dreaded and desired to see Dammartin again. What had occurred between them last night had shocked her. She had not known herself capable of such…such wantonness. She thought again of his mouth, hot and hard against her breast. Her nipples tightened at the memory and her cheeks flushed warm. Beyond redemption indeed.
For all of her determination, for all that he was and had done, when he was near, when he touched her, when he as much as looked at her, she could not help herself from wanting his kiss. She was within his power, and yet last night there had been the sensation that it was he who was within hers. Dammartin did not want this any more than she did. There had been anguish and torment in his voice. God help me, he had said, God help us both.
This craving that linked them together was beyond both their controls, and it frightened her to think where it would lead, so Josie did not allow herself to think. One day at a time, she told herself, one hour, one minute, one second. She could not hide for ever. With her cloak wrapped around her, she stepped out to face the aftermath of the night.
The Captain's Forbidden Miss Page 16