Violet v-5

by Jane Feather

  A shiver ran through her, and still she didn't move and she didn't speak. Julian stood looking down at her, and now he saw the blue shadows of exhaustion on the paper-thin skin beneath her eyes, the fine lines of endurance on the drawn countenance. She’d been a prisoner of the French for two days. When had she last eaten? Slept?

  She reminded him of a bruised flower.

  Dear Lord! He was falling victim to an attack of sentimental fantasy, he thought disgustedly, but he turned to the fire and refilled his mug with tea. “Here.”

  She took the mug, still without speaking, but he saw how her fingers trembled as they curled around the warmth, lifting it to her lips. A shudder of pleasure rippled through the slight frame as the hot liquid slipped down her throat.

  He broke bread, slapped two thick slices of cold mutton onto a crusty hunk, and handed it to her, then he turned to tend the fire, withdrawing his attention from her so she could eat in relative privacy, despite the rope that fastened her to his sword belt.

  As he rubbed his hands over the small flame, he realized that the rain had stopped. After seven days of continual downpour, the relentless drumming had ceased. He glanced up at the sky visible above the roofless half of their shelter. A faint, misty aura showed through the clouds. Fine weather would expedite the siege workings outside Badajos. Besieging a city was wretched work and made the men restless and dissatisfied. They'd all be glad when this one was over and done with.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. She’d put the empty mug on the floor beside her and was huddled into his boat cloak, her eyes closed.

  For such a very thorny violet, she looked remarkably vulnerable and powerless. Nevertheless, Colonel, Lord St. Simon decided he'd stay awake for what remained of the night.

  Chapter two

  TAMSYN AWOKE AFTER TWO HOURS. AS ALWAYS, SHE MOVED from sleep to waking without any transition. Her mind was clear, her body refreshed, her recollection of the events that had brought her to this place perfectly lucid. Except… except that she couldn't understand what had happened to cause that first kiss. It made no sense. She loathed and despised all men wearing a soldier's uniform, and yet she'd kissed this one, a man who with no justification held her captive in this muddy squalor. She d kissed him and she'd enjoyed it. Her enjoyment had so shocked her that she'd lashed out at him with violent injustice that she knew had earned his rough retribution.

  She opened her eyes and looked across at the English colonel. He was sitting beside the fire, a horse blanket around his shoulders, his head drooping on his chest. The fire was still alight, though, so presumably he hadn’t been asleep for long.

  Her hands were clasped in her lap under the boat cloak. Keeping her eyes on the hunched, slumbering figure, she slid her hands down her leg, feeling for the knotted rope at her ankle. If she didn't move her feet, the tension and play of the rope would remain the same, and her captor would feel no change in his end.

  “Don't even think about it.” His voice was cool and crisp, and he raised his head, his eyes sharp and right in the dawn light. If he'd been asleep, he slept like a cat, Tamsyn reflected glumly.

  She pretended that she didn't understand what he meant. “I need to go outside,” she said with a casual yawn and a stretch, adding acidly, “I assume I may do so.”

  “I have no objection,” he returned blandly, getting to his feet. When she was standing up, he gave the rope a little jerk of encouragement. “Come. We don't have all day.”

  Tamsyn cursed him under her breath as she gingerly stepped after him with her hobbled feet, out into a balmy dawn.

  The sky was cloudless; the sun a glowing red ball on the horizon, and the air smelled fresh and clean. The copse was filled with birdsong, and the men of the Sixth were waking, putting pannikins of water over the fires, seeing to the tethered horses. They cast curious glances at their colonel and his prisoner as the two walked away from the bivouac toward the river.

  “You should find sufficient privacy behind those rocks,” the colonel observed, gesturing toward an outcrop on the riverbank. “The rope is long enough for you to be one side and me to be the other.”

  “You are so considerate, Coronel.”

  “Yes, I believe I am,” he agreed with a careless smile, ignoring her caustic tone.

  “What is it you want of me?” she demanded. She'd asked the question last night, but matters had become somewhat confused, and there'd been no clear answer.

  “ Wellington wishes to speak with you,” he returned.

  “Therefore, I am taking you to headquarters in Elvas.”

  “As a prisoner?” She gestured to the tethering rope.

  “Why should this be necessary for a simple conversation?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Would La Violette accept an invitation from the commander in chief of His Majesty's Army of the Peninsula?” he retorted in the same tone.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I have no time for armies, whatever side they fight on. And the sooner this country is rid of you, the better.” She glared into the red ball of the rising sun. “You have no more business interfering with the affairs of Spain than Napoleon. And you're no better than he is.”

  “But, unfortunately, you need us to drive him out,” he said, hanging on to his temper. “And Wellington needs some information from you, which, my dear girl, you are going to give to him. Now, pray make haste.” He gestured impatiently to the rocks.

  Tamsyn didn't immediately move. This English colonel was all too complacent, like the rest of the breed. She gazed at the river for a moment, then said, “I would like to bathe. I seem to have been sitting in mud for days.”

  “Bathe?” Julian stared at her, taken aback at this abrupt switch of subject. “Don't be absurd. The water will be like ice.”

  “But the sun's warm,” she pointed out. “And I've been bathing in these rivers all my life. I only wish to dip myself once in the water, just to wash off the worst of the mud.” She turned pleading eyes on him. “What harm can it do, Colonel?”

  He hesitated, words of denial on his lips, but before he could speak them, she plucked at her shirt and ran a hand through her short hair. “I'm filthy. Look at my hands.” She held them out for his inspection. “And my hair's disgusting. I can't bear to be in my own skin! If I must converse with your commander in chief, at least allow me some dignity.”

  Her wrinkled nose and disgusted grimace amused him despite his anger at the sweeping contempt of her earlier remarks. She was undeniably filthy. He knew the miseries of it himself; after days of marching through every kind of weather, sleeping on muddy ground and under hedgerows, a man couldn't get the smell of his own body out of his nostrils. His task was to bring her to headquarters at Elvas. But he could grant reasonable requests without jeopardizing that task.

  “You'll freeze to death,” he said. “But if you wish to, then you may-for two minutes.”

  “My thanks.” She kicked off her shoes and then regarded him expectantly. “May I untie the rope? It'll tighten unbearably if it gets wet.”

  “You may,” he agreed. “But if you attempt to run from me, my friend, I'll catch you, and you’ll walk to Elvas tethered to my stirrup.”

  Anger flashed across her eyes, turning the deep purple almost black, and then it was quickly banished. She shrugged as if accepting his statement and bent to unfasten the rope. She tugged off her stockings, unfastened her britches, and pushed them off, kicking them to one side. Clad in thin linen drawers and her shirt, she turned to walk down to the river.

  Suddenly Julian sensed the current of energy surging through her, just as he had done when he'd held her on his horse yesterday. Purpose and determination were in every taut line of her body. He caught her arm. Just a minute.”

  He looked at the river. At the far bank. The water was fairly smooth, but there was a telltale ripple of an undercurrent a few feet from the near shore. It was unlikely she could swim to the other side… unlikely, but not impossible. This was La Violette, after all.


  “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

  “What! All of them? In front of you?” She looked outraged, and yet somehow he wasn't convinced by this display of maidenly modesty.

  “Yes, all of them,” he affirmed evenly. “I doubt even you will take off from the far bank stark naked.”

  “What makes you think I could swim that far?” Her eyes widened in innocent inquiry. “It must be a good half mile with a strong undertow. I'm not that good a swimmer.”

  “You'll have to forgive me if I choose not to believe that,” he responded as evenly as before. “If you wish to bathe, then you must do so in your skin. Otherwise, perhaps you would do what you have to behind the rocks and we can return to the camp.”

  Chagrin darted over her face. A mere fleeting expression, but he saw it and knew he'd been right. La Violette had had some thoughts of escape.

  Tamsyn turned away from him and unfastened her shirt. Damn the man for being such a perspicacious bastard. It would have been simplicity itself to swim to the opposite shore, and she wouldn't have had far to go before she found help from some peasant farmer. But tramping the countryside in a soaked shirt and drawers was one thing. In her bare skin was a different matter altogether.

  Her mind raced over alternatives, her eyes skimming across the riverbank, looking for anything helpful. The terrain was relatively flat and mossy, and she could run like the wind if she had a decent start. A hundred yards away the ground rose toward a small hill crowned with a tangle of bushes and undergrowth. If she could reach there, she could go to ground like a fox before the hounds. No English soldier would be able to find La Violette on her own territory.

  She dropped the shirt to the ground, loosened the string at the waist of her drawers, and kicked them off. St. Simon had been correct in assuming his prisoner was a stranger to modesty unless it suited her purposes to feign it. She was no convent-reared hidalgo maiden and had grown up in the rough-and-tumble of a bandit encampment, where she'd made an early acquaintance with the facts of life. Besides, at this moment she was far too occupied with the glimmer of a plan to give a moment’s thought to the colonel's eyes on her body.

  Gathering up her discarded garments, she folded them with care and placed them on the ground close to the rock. It was a tidy little gesture that struck St. Simon as a trifle incongruous. But before he could work out why it should trouble him, she turned to face him, her feet slightly apart, arms akimbo, naked except for an intricately worked silver locket on a slender chain.

  “Satisfied, Colonel?”

  For a moment he ignored the double-edged question that threw a contemptuous challenge. His eyes ran down the lean, taut body that seemed to thrum with energy. He realized that the illusion of fragility came from her diminutive stature; unclothed, she had the compact, smooth-muscled body of an athlete, limber and arrow straight. His gaze lingered on the small, pointed breasts, the slight flare of her hips, the tangle of pale hair at the base of her belly.

  It was the most desirable little body. His breath quickened, and his nostrils flared as he fought down the torrent of arousal. He must be losing his mind, to have put himself in this situation. Why the hell had he even considered allowing her to bathe in the river? But he had and it was too late now.

  Emotions under control again, he raised his eyes to her face and saw with a certain grim satisfaction that his scrutiny had discomfited her. There was less certainty in her challenging stance, and her eyes slid away from his. It was some recompense for his own unbidden response.

  “Perfectly,” he drawled. “I find myself perfectly satisfied.”

  Anger chased discomfiture from her expression, and she took a step forward so that for a second he thought she was going to strike him again. If she did, she would regret it.

  Tamsyn read the message in his eyes and in the almost imperceptible readying of his body. The impulse to lash out at him died as rapidly as it had risen as she reminded herself that she was wasting time. Her plan was now fully formed, and engaging in this disturbing battle of wits was both futile and distracting. She turned without a word and walked to the edge of the high bank.

  Julian watched as she stood poised above the water.

  The back view was every bit as arousing as the front, he reflected dreamily. Then she rose on her toes, raised her arms, and dived cleanly into the swift-running river.

  He walked to the edge of the bank, waiting for the bright fair head to surface. The water flowed strongly, and the rippling undertow was a wide band about five feet from the bank. A kingfisher flashed deepest blue as it dived into the swift surface and emerged with a fish sparking silver in the rays of the rising sun. But there was no sign of La Violette. It was as if she'd dived and disappeared.

  His throat tightened in alarm. Could she have become entangled in the treacherous weeds he could see waving in thick dark-green fronds just below the surface?

  Could she be swimming underwater to the far bank?

  His eyes darted to the neat pile of clothes. They were still there on the ground by the rock. He'd taken care of that escape route. His eyes raked the surface of the water. There was nothing. Not a sign. How long since she'd dived? Minutes.

  He was pulling off his boots, tearing at the buttons of his tunic without conscious decision. He flung his sword belt to the grass, yanked off his britches and his shirt, and dived into the river as close as possible to where he believed his prisoner had gone in.

  He surfaced, teeth chattering in the icy waters that poured down from the snow-covered Sierra. No one could survive in this temperature for more than a couple of minutes. He stared at the smooth, unbroken surface of the river, shaking the water from his hair. Nothing. She'd disappeared as completely as if she'd never existed.

  Again he dived, pushing through the forest of reeds, his eyes open, looking for a pale limb, a flutter of hair that would show where she was trapped.

  Tamsyn surfaced on the far side of the rocks as soon as she heard the splash as he entered the water. She too was shivering with cold, her hair a dark, wet cap plastered to her head. But there was a triumphant gleam in her eyes, and a grin curved her blue lips. It had been a gamble that he'd go in after her without a moment's consideration, but her mother had told her many laughing tales of the so-called and frequently misplaced chivalry of English gentlemen. This English colonel was clearly no exception to the rule.

  She leaped onto the bank, hidden by the rocks from the swimmer on the other side, and shook the water from her body with the vigor of a small dog. The sun struck warmly on her icy flesh as she darted sideways to grab up the neat pile of clothes.

  Julian came up for air, numbed with cold, knowing that he shouldn't stay in the water another minute, yet forcing himself to go down for one more look. As he prepared to dive, he glanced toward the bank and saw a pale shadow against the rock, and then it was gone. It was no more than a formless flicker, but he knew what it was without even thinking.

  His bellow of fury roared through the peaceful early morning on the banks of the Guadiana. A curlew screamed in imitation, and a flock of wild ducks rose from their nesting place in the reeds, wings beating in alarm as he waded through the water to the bank.

  Tamsyn swore to herself and picked up her heels, racing across the flat mossy ground toward the small brush-covered hill. She didn't attempt to put on her clothes, simply clutched them to her wet bosom. It was sheer bad luck that he'd seen her, but she calculated she had enough of a start. He still had to scramble onto the bank, and she had to be fleeter of foot than a lumbering large-framed soldier.

  Julian, however, had been a sprinter in his school days, and his long legs ate up the distance between them. He was running in blind fury, at himself for being so gullible, and at his quarry for making such a fool of him. He never failed at anything he set out to accomplish, and he wasn't going to be defeated in this instance by some flowerlike, diminutive, tricky, plundering, pillaging, mercenary bandit.

  He was gaining on her, the icy river water turned to
sweat on his bare skin, but she had almost reached the hill, and he knew that if she could attain the undergrowth, his chances of finding her were small. He and his men could beat the brush for hours, but he knew from experience how the guerrillas could disappear into this land without trace.

  Tamsyn's breath was coming in gasping sobs now as she neared the rising ground. She could sense rather than hear her pursuer, his footfalls, like her own, were lost in the soft wet moss of the riverbank. But she knew he was closing on her. With a last effort she hurled herself up the slope, and then her foot caught in a sinewy tangle of thin roots creeping over the surface of the earth.

  She fell to her knees with a cry of annoyance that changed to a shriek of alarmed fury as Julian hurled himself forward and his fingers closed over her ankle. She hadn't realized he was that close. Desperately, she kicked back with her free foot, but he hung on grimly, even when her foot bashed his chin. Her hands scrabbled at the sinewy roots, trying to get sufficient purchase to pull herself free, but he'd caught her other foot now and was hauling her backward, down to the flat ground. Her fingers slipped on the roots and she lost her hold, tumbling down as he pulled her, the bare skin of her belly and breasts rasping over the ground, pricked by twigs and tiny stones.

  “Espadachin!” she raged, twisting onto her back, her fingers curled into claws, reaching for his face. “You're hurting me!”

  “You'd make a fool of me, would you?” Lord St. Simon said furiously. “Diablillo! Crafty, tricky goddamned little monkey!” He grabbed her hands as they lunged for his face, wrenching her arms above her head, grabbing her chin with' his other hand, holding her head steady on the moss. “You'd serve me such a trick, would you? Let me tell you, mi muchacha, that it'll take more than a devious bandit to get the better of me.”