Josie set the mess tin and spoon down, and did not look at Rosa. ‘My father’s friend and his wife were kind enough to let me stay with them last year. They might be willing to help me arrange a position of some sort—a ladies’ companion, perhaps.’ But she held little hope and much dread.
She had no skills that would be of use in genteel life in England. She was useless to the point of being inept at any formal social occasion. She could not sing or play music, or paint or embroider. Her voice had been commented upon as being dull and her conversation even duller. Before the ladies of the ton Josie’s mind was sure to go blank. She knew not one thing that would be of any interest to such women. It would be that dreadful year all over again, being forced into a society into which she did not fit. The prospect of such a future seemed unbearable. Josie looked up suddenly at Rosa, unaware that all her fears showed in her eyes.
Rosa touched a hand to Josie’s arm in a token of comfort. ‘You and I, we are the same. Without father or husband, without home.’
Josie averted her gaze.
But Rosa continued just the same. ‘But we are strong. We survive. Claude, he save my life. Captain Dammartin, he save yours. There is nothing in Spain for me, there is only Claude. For you it is England and another man.’
‘Rosa, no—’
‘We are sisters.’
Josie left her words unspoken.
The two women looked at one another, a bond of friendship forming.
‘Thank you, Rosa, your kindness means much to me.’
Later that evening Rosa left the women’s tent to go to Lamont. Josie stayed alone, sitting cross-legged on the blanket bed, trying to repair her torn shift. One stitch sewn and she remembered Dammartin’s hands ripping the shift from her body. A second stitch and the image flashed in her head of his mouth upon her breast. She felt the breath catch in her throat, felt the flush rise in her cheeks and the press of her nipples against her underclothes. No. She shook her head as if by so doing she could deny the thoughts and pretend they did not exist.
Dammartin had been right to send her away, for, Lord help her, she could not stop this fire that burned in her for him. She wanted his kiss, his touch, his taste upon her tongue. It was like some kind of madness that robbed her of all rational thought so that not the memory of her father, nor the war, nor all that had happened, could quench her desire.
Dammartin had acted for duty and for honour in sending her away. La Roque had been wrong; it was not Dammartin that had made her a whore, but Josie herself. She swallowed down that hard realisation, and felt the misting of her eyes. She blinked the tears away, scorning her own weakness and set the shift and its memories aside.
One hand reached and extinguished the lantern before she rose silently to stand by the tent’s entrance.
The night sky above was a deep, dark velvet. Stars glittered small and bright. The moon had grown larger so that it was a fat three-quarters full. The air around her was cold and filled with the dampness that always came with night. Her breath smoked in small puffs of condensation. And as she stood there, under the great vastness of the sky, and the settling silence, Josie thought of her father and of Dammartin’s, and of the lies that had been told of them…and of La Roque, a man that Dammartin had said was his father’s close friend.
La Roque had woven a web of lies to destroy Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s reputation across all of France, that much was clear, but the question was why. The only person who could answer that question was La Roque himself. She glanced over to where the two infantrymen lounged that had been set to guard her, knowing that, whatever she said, they would not let her leave the tent.
A group of three women, wearing dresses so low cut as to appear positively indecent, pushed past her. Josie stepped aside to let them pass, pulling her cloak tightly around her and watching them go. No one stopped their progress. They moved forwards unaccosted, their laughter and teasing voices loud across the field. An idea slipped into Josie’s mind.
She turned and, back inside the tent, found the clothes that Rosa had given her. And then from within the leather satchel she had carried with her so closely she removed the thin precious book she had guarded for so long. Within the darkness she changed into the Spanish dress, hiding the book in the safest of places and unlacing the top of the chemise like she had seen the other women doing. Instead of her cloak she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Quickly she pulled the pins from her hair, mussing it with her fingers to lie long and wanton. She hesitated by the tent’s doorway, darting a nervous glance across at the guards.
One deep breath and she hesitated no more. Josie walked out into the night, feeling the breeze chill the tops of her breasts and the wind stir through her hair. She held her head up and walked out with the same sway of the hips mimicked from the women, and the same air that she knew exactly where she was going.
She had almost made it across the field when the fusilier stopped her.
He stared at her suspiciously. ‘Madame?’
Josie’s heart was thudding fit to leap out of her chest. She forced herself to smile at the man. ‘Monsieur,’ she said in as sultry a tone as she could manage and let the shawl that she held wrapped tightly around her fall open. The light of the man’s flambeau danced across the bareness of her skin that Rosa’s dress revealed. ‘I am afraid that I already have an appointment for this night. Perhaps tomorrow…’ Her French was flawless and without the trace of an English accent.
The man no longer looked at her face. He addressed the rest of his comments to the neckline of the dress at the place where her breasts rose and fell. ‘I am Antoine Nerin and I would be very pleased to accommodate you tomorrow, madame.’
He was still staring.
Josie suppressed the urge to wrap the shawl as a shield around her.
‘You will come?’
‘Naturally,’ she said, and gave what she hoped sounded like a trill of laughter. Then she turned to go and jumped as she felt the man’s hand stroke across her bottom.
‘Until tomorrow.’
She nodded.
And finally she was on her way and pulling the shawl tight around her.
It was not difficult to locate Major La Roque’s tent. It was large and set slightly apart from the others. She saw him standing by the opened flap, looking out, watching, as if he were waiting for someone, and then he moved back inside and she saw him no more.
A fusilier looked at her suspiciously. She let the shawl gape and looked away.
He saw the nature of her business and approached no farther, allowing her to continue on her way towards the Major’s tent.
There was a campfire to the right with a group of blue-coated men sitting around it. She saw to her consternation that one of them was Donadieu, so she skirted away, going round the other way to come at La Roque’s tent from behind. She began to walk towards the tent flap.
A flambeau mounted on a stand burned near the front. On the inside of the tent a lantern illuminated the figure of La Roque lounging in a chair at his table.
Footsteps sounded and she saw the figure of Lieutenant Molyneux approaching. She ducked down out of sight and waited for him to pass. But Molyneux did not pass; instead, he reported to the Major’s tent. Josie crept back behind the tent, wondering why Dammartin had sent his lieutenant to La Roque at this time of night. She crouched low as if she were lacing her boot.
La Roque’s French words sounded clear from within. ‘Brandy?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
There was the sound of glass chinking against glass, and the fall of liquid. ‘You have done well, Molyneux. What have you to report tonight? Has he made any mention of the girl?’
‘No sir. Not a one.’
‘Then it seems that our plan has worked. You must have convinced him most thoroughly of her perfidious nature.’
‘Indeed sir, Mademoiselle Mallington was most easily manipulated.’
Josie felt her blood turn to ice. Shock kicked her hard so that she held her b
reath, poised and waiting for what was to come.
‘Did you manage to search her person for the missing journal?
‘Unfortunately the Captain arrived before I could progress to that stage. I must confess I was rather disappointed.’
La Roque laughed. ‘Why so, Molyneux? If you want the girl, you may have her.’
Josie bit hard at her lip, disbelieving the words that she was hearing.
‘But she is a lieutenant colonel’s daughter and, as such, will be returned to the British. If she makes allegations…’
‘You worry too much, Molyneux.’ She heard the smile in La Roque’s voice. ‘The British do not even know that Mademoiselle Mallington is still alive. They will believe her killed with her father. You may do what you like with her and no one will mind in the slightest.’
Josie’s stomach constricted to a small, hard ball.
‘Captain Dammartin will mind,’ said Molyneux. ‘He was looking at me last night as if he would kill me.’
‘Leave Captain Dammartin to me,’ said La Roque. ‘You concentrate on the journal. It cannot be mere coincidence that Mallington’s journal for Oporto is the only one missing. The girl must have it. Take her tonight. Seduce her. Strip her. Search between her damn legs if you have to. I want that journal. You did well to find me the others, but it is this one that we need—for Pierre’s sake.’
Josie’s eyes widened. Her mouth gaped open.
‘I will try my utmost, sir.’
‘I like a man that can be trusted. You’ll go far in this army, Lieutenant Molyneux, far indeed, if I have anything to do with it.’
She knew then the true extent of Molyneux’s treachery.
They started to speak of various women of the baggage train, but Josie had heard enough. She felt sick to the bottom of her stomach, sick and angry and disgusted. Molyneux was La Roque’s spy. The shock of what he had done and what he planned to do made her stomach heave and her legs shake. Josie swallowed hard and breathed deeply before rising and moving swiftly from her crouched position by La Roque’s tent.
She did not retrace her steps back to the women’s tent. Instead, Josie hurried through the campsite towards Bonaparte’s 8th Dragoons, and the man that commanded them—Captain Pierre Dammartin.
Dammartin and Lamont were sitting by what was left of the fire.
‘So, the problem of Mademoiselle Mallington is no more.’
Dammartin rubbed at the stubbled growth of his jawline and gave no reply. What could he say—that even now he could not stop thinking about her, that he wanted her, that a part of him regretted sending her to La Roque?
‘Then, what happened in the tent with Molyneux made up your mind?’ Lamont puffed at his pipe.
‘No,’ said Dammartin, ‘it was what happened afterwards.’ He thought of her beneath him, of his mouth suckling upon her perfect breasts, of the raggedness of her breathing and her low seductive moan of heated desire.
Lamont wisely said nothing.
‘You saw her with Molyneux. The whole bloody camp saw her. And even that did not make a difference. I would have had her, taken her right there, had I not come to my senses in time.’ Dammartin shook his head. ‘I think I have been too long without a woman, my friend, that I am so willing take Molyneux’s leavings.’
A cloud of tobacco smoke released from Lamont’s mouth, filling the air with its sweet aroma. ‘I could not help but overhear about the splinter.’
Dammartin smiled cynically. ‘Ah, yes, the splinter.’
‘The girl’s interest is in you, Pierre, not Molyneux. God only knows why, given who she is and what happened in Telemos…and the fact that you have hardly been gentle with her.’ He sniffed and gave a philosophical shrug. ‘But then, I suppose, there is nothing of reason in the affairs of the heart…or of the breeches.’
Dammartin stared sullenly into the dying flames. ‘What game is our lieutenant playing at, I wonder?’
‘Who can know? But at least now she is with La Roque it will be an end to the matter.’
Dammartin said nothing.
‘Goodnight, Captain,’ said Lamont, and, getting to his feet, made his way to his tent.
‘Goodnight, Sergeant,’ came the reply.
Dammartin sat for only a few moments more, before he, too, retired for the night, leaving the dragoon camp deserted.
The night was quietening down as Josie made her way through the line of camps. She did not know when Molyneux would leave and she had no wish for him to discover her on the road. Three times men made advances to her. Three times she told them she already had an appointment. One of the men clasped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him, his foul breath hot against her neck. ‘Let me persuade you otherwise, madame,’ he had said, and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket.
Josie pushed him away, but he would not release her. She held the panic that threatened to break loose in check. ‘I tell you, I have an arrangement with an officer. Now release me, sir, or you will have him to answer to.’
‘Let her go, Thomass,’ his friends said. ‘We don’t want any trouble. This bloody forced march is bad enough without being pulled up over a whore.’
The man, Thomass, sneered, but eventually he threw her away, and spat noisily after her.
Josie quelled the urge to run. She walked away, pulling the shawl tight around her, refusing to look back. But her heart was thrumming fast and the blood was pounding in her ears, and she could not rid herself of the notion that Thomass was following her.
Eventually she came to the dragoons’ camp and the tents that belonged to their officers. A fire burned low in the foreground, but the tents themselves were in darkness, and for one fearful minute she wondered if they would be empty and that her journey would have been in vain.
This camp was quiet. The two identical tents sat before her and she realised that she did not know which was Captain Dammartin’s and which was that of his officers. She dare not make the mistake, especially if Molyneux had returned.
Looking around her, she found a small stone upon the ground. She stooped and caught it up, then, taking careful aim, she threw the stone at the tent pitched farthest to the right-hand side. There was a soft thud as the stone found its target against the canvas.
She waited, but there was nothing. Another stone. Another hit.
This time a man appeared at the tent flap. He was garbed in an unfastened shirt, breeches and hastily donned boots. Even in the low light from the fire that stood between Josie’s hiding place and the tents, she could see quite clearly that it was Pierre Dammartin.
He looked out into the night, peering across to the bushes where Josie crouched. She heard him treading about by the tent until he eventually went back inside. A quick glance around and then she rose and silently crossed the ground that separated them.
Dammartin did not climb back into bed upon his return to his tent. Instead, he slid his sabre quietly from its scabbard. Awareness tingled and he could not rest. The sound had most likely been one of his men fooling about, but Dammartin’s instinct told him otherwise, and through the years Dammartin had learned to listen to his instinct. On the war trail it was often the only thing that kept a man alive. So he stood there and listened to the silence of the night, and eventually he heard the soft pad of footsteps cross the soil to his tent. He stuffed his pillow beneath the blanket on the bed so that it would vaguely resemble the bulk of a figure. Then his fingers closed around the sabre’s hilt. The weight balanced in his hand and he moved forwards noiselessly to stand at the side of the tent flap. Whoever was stealing into his tent would find Dammartin, but not quite as they expected.
His mouth was hard, his eyes narrowed. He wondered as to the identity of the intruder, knowing that it had to be someone from within Foy’s escort. Maybe Molyneux in retaliation for what had happened between them over Josephine Mallington.
Someone was untying the fastenings of the tent flap. His body tensed. The canvas that made the tent’s door drew back and the figure stepped
inside into the black within that was slightly darker than the black without. Too small and slight for Molyneux. Silently, the intruder moved towards the bed.
Through the darkness Josie could just make out the mound of Dammartin’s figure within the bed. She stepped forwards and felt a sudden press against her back. An involuntary gasp escaped her, and she did not need to look round to know the touch of a blade.
‘Turn around slowly,’ he said in French. His voice was quiet and low, but she knew that it was Dammartin. Relief swamped her. She released the breath that she had been holding.
‘Captain Dammartin…Pierre.’ She spoke as quietly as he.
The pressure dropped from her back. The sabre blade hissed as it was plunged back into its scabbard. ‘Josephine?’ There could be no mistaking his shock. ‘What the hell—?’
‘Thank God!’ She turned and slipped into his arms. ‘I had to come, I had to warn you…’
Releasing her, he caught up a lantern, intent on lighting it.
‘No.’ She stayed his hand. ‘No one must see me here. It is not safe.’
‘The men are abed. There is no one to see.’
‘There is Lieutenant Molyneux,’ she whispered, knowing that even as she spoke Molyneux was probably looking for her in the women’s tent.
‘He also has retired,’ he said coldly.
‘Believe me, Molyneux is abroad this night.’
‘Josephine, what are you—?’
‘No, you must listen to me. There is not much time. Molyneux will soon realise that I am gone and La Roque will be alerted.’
‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said more sternly.
‘Captain Dammartin,’ she countered, catching at his hands through the darkness. ‘Please just listen.’
Dammartin felt the urgent press of her fingers against his and knew that what had been achieved by sending Josephine Mallington to his godfather had just been undone. She had come to him and he knew by the coursing of his blood and the strength of his desire that he could fight no more this night.
‘Very well.’ The scent of her teased beneath his nose. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.
The Captain's Forbidden Miss Page 18