by Jane Feather
“It's not really my style,” Julian said. “If those villains of yours pass out, we'll be in poor shape to defend ourselves.”
“Oh, I'll not be drinking with them,” Gabriel said.
“They'll have a glass or two with supper, but they'll keep themselves sober or feel my whip at their backs, and they know it. No,” he said happily, “I've discovered some friends in the village. A little dice, a little card play… relaxes a man.”
Julian raised an eyebrow but offered no contradiction to this. The evening would bring what it would bring.
After supper a group of men drifted in from the village, rolling another cask of wine between them. They greeted Gabriel with much backslapping and shoulder punching before they settled down in a corner of the barnyard to play dice on an upturned rain barrel.
Tamsyn came back from the stream with Josefa, where they'd been cleaning the supper bowls and trenchers. “He's well away,” she commented, stowing the dishes in a saddlebag with a deft domestic efficiency that again surprised Julian. Josefa was still muttering, casting black looks at the men in the corner of the yard. Then she shook out a blanket and spread it on the cobbles, hauled a saddlebag onto the blanket as a pillow, and promptly lay down, drawing her various shawls, mantillas, and cloak around her.
Tamsyn chuckled, whispering, “She'll not let him out of her sight when he's started on this road. Not that he appreciates it. He'll curse her up hill and down dale if she interferes.”
Julian glanced up at the velvet-black sky with its dazzling panorama of stars. The air was chill now, a fresh breeze coming down from the mountain peaks. “You'd better get some sleep in the hayloft.”
“What about you?” Tamsyn hefted a roll of blankets ·onto her shoulder. It dwarfed her diminutive figure, yet she carried it with ease.
“I'll bed down somewhere,” he said dismissively.
“But I could make up a bed for both of us in the loft,” she said, her teeth flashing in the darkness as she smiled invitingly. “It'll be cozy in the hay.”
“For God's sake, girl, what does it take to get through to you?” he demanded in a fierce undertone. “Get up into the loft and get some sleep. I'm going to have a word with Gabriel.”
He turned away from her hurt gaze, which reminded him absurdly of a kicked puppy, and strolled over to the now noisy group. Gabriel looked up, his eyes bleary but his expression jovial. “Anything I can do for you, Colonel?”
Julian shook his head and pulled out his watch. “I'll relieve you at two.”
“Och, aye, that'll be grand,” the giant said serenely, attempting a wink but managing a squint instead. “I'll be a rich man long afore then.” He rolled the dice and chuckled at the three sixes they gave him. “Can't do a thing wrong tonight.” There was a guffaw from the men surrounding him, and the village elder refreshed
Gabriel's tankard of wine from a stone jar he held between his feet. Fortifying it with the rough, stomach burning brandy of the region, Julian assumed. A mixture that would put an ordinary man under the table after a couple of swigs.
He cast a glance around the yard. Gabriel had positioned his sentries sensibly enough. One of them was stationed at the rear, commanding the foot of the goat track that wound down from the heights. He had a pitch torch at his feet, a rifle between his knees, and was smoking a noxious pipe. The other two were stationed at either end of the village, guarding the main path. Gabriel had seated himself so that he faced both the entrance to the yard and the byre where the treasure was stored.
But the man couldn't see straight!
Julian decided he'd keep his own watch during Gabriel’s tour. He'd had many a sleepless night during the four years of the Peninsular campaign-one more wouldn't hurt him. He turned toward the barn.
“Keep the bairn close to you,” Gabriel called after him, and his voice was less thick than it had been.
Julian glanced back. Gabriel nodded significantly at him. Drunk or sober, his little girl's safety was clearly still uppermost in his mind.
Julian raised a hand in acknowledgment and went into the barn. The other three outriders were sleeping on the floor, snoring in the straw until it was time to take their watch. He sat in a corner of the barn, close to the ladder to the hayloft, drew his cloak tight around him, and· prepared to wait until Tamsyn was safely asleep.
After half an hour he judged it safe to go up to the loft. Temptation should by now be deeply asleep. He climbed the ladder softly. Tamsyn had spread the blankets and was curled in a comfortable nest of hay. Moonlight fell through the round window, silvering her pale hair, and her deep, even breathing filled the small fragrant chamber.
Julian tiptoed to the window. It looked down on the yard, and he could clearly see Gabriel and his fellow drinkers. It looked a peaceful, convivial scene.
He glanced back at the sleeper. Only her silvery hair was visible in the straw and blanket nest. How could such a wild and unusual girl expect to make her way in English society; expect to persuade some stiff-necked Cornish family, overly conscious of lineage and position, to take her to their bosom? It was always possible she was mistaken about her mother's social position, and her family were simply landed gentry or country squires. If so, she might have a better chance of winning them over. But to turn this bastard brigand into an English aristocrat was the stuff of a lunatic dream. It would take a damn sight longer than six months to achieve such a miracle. And it would need more of a miracle worker than he believed himself to be. But he hadn't guaranteed success, he reminded himself Then again, he couldn't tolerate failure. He never had been able to.
Grimly, he turned back to his observation of the yard. He didn't know how long he'd been staring down at the glowing embers of the fire and the flickering torchlight around the dice players when he caught sight of the dark shadow flitting behind the byre. He blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the shifting light, and then Gabriel bellowed, leaping to his feet, sending the rain butt crashing and rolling onto the cobbles. A cudgel appeared in his hand from nowhere, swinging ill a deadly arc. Julian was already sliding down the ladder, his pistol in his hand, when Tamsyn sat bolt upright, wide-awake, listening intently to the confusion below.
The three outriders still slept in the hay at the foot of the ladder, and Julian kicked at them impatiently, trying to rouse them. The only result was a deeper snore and a muttered protest. His foot caught on something, and a stone jar like the one he'd seen in the yard rolled along the floor. He picked it up and sniffed. The jar had contained brandy and something else; a white, powdery residue coated the bottom. Gabriel had forbidden them to drink after supper, but obviously someone had provided them with liquor, carefully spiked.
He raced into the yard. Gabriel was surrounded by the men he'd been drinking with, wielding his cudgel and bellowing some bloodthirsty Highland war cry as they came at him, moonlight glinting on steel.
Julian drew his curved cavalry sword and leaped into the fray. Clearly the threat they'd had to worry about came from within the village. He could see the dark shape of the other sentry on the ground, presumably dispatched by the black shadow he'd noticed from the loft, and he guessed the two at the entrances of the village had been taken from the rear as well. But if they'd been intending to put Gabriel out of commission with the same draft they'd given the outriders, they'd miscalculated.
The man was a lion, still roaring his war cry. His eyes shone red in the light of the torches they'd been playing by, and he greeted Julian's arrival with a ferocious snarl that Julian correctly interpreted as “Welcome to the fight.”
The men began to fall back as the two wielded cudgel and sword; then suddenly Tamsyn was in their midst. She grabbed one of the flaming-pitch torches and drove it into the face of a man flourishing a wicked serrated knife. He covered his face with a shriek and the knife clattered to the cobbles. She dived to the ground, snatching up the knife. And then the men were running from the courtyard, pursued by Gabriel and Julian and an irate Josefa, who, Julian realized incred
ulously, was wielding a broomstick to painful effect.
“Madre de Dios,” Gabriel said as they slammed shut the gates to the yard. He wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm and grinned. “I do believe they thought to get me drunk.” He laughed uproariously, his massive shoulders shaking with mirth.
“They were spiking the wine with more than brandy,” Julian said. “Those three”-he gestured with his head toward the barn-”are out for the count.”
“Pedro's got a bump on his head the size of an apple, but he's alive.” Tamsyn had run with Josefa to examine the stricken sentry. “What about the two in the village?”
“Let's hope they'll be no worse,” Julian said, frowning at her. “That was a foolhardy trick with the torch. You could have set fire to the barn.”
“I was careful,” she retorted. “And it worked.” “Yes, I grant you that. But it was still foolhardy.” Tamsyn shrugged. “In an emergency you use what tools are available.”
Julian couldn't fault this logic. He knew he'd have done the same himself He turned to Gabriel with an abrupt change of subject. “We'd better hole up here until dawn and then make a break for it.”
“Aye.” Gabriel nodded. “We'll pick up the other two as we leave. Let's get these others sobered up. We'd do well to show all the force we can on the way out, although I doubt they'll be too anxious for a repeat engagement. Woman, make more coffee.”
Josefa, without a word, dropped her broomstick and went to the still-glowing embers of the fire.
“Help me load up the mules.” Julian beckoned Tamsyn, who came over with alacrity, her eyes sparkling in the firelight, her body thrumming with energy in the aftermath of excitement. “I want to be ready to go the minute the sky starts to lighten.”
“They won't give us any more trouble,” Tamsyn said confidently. “A tribe of shameful incompetents.” She grinned. “The baron would never have taken them into his band. His raids never failed.”
Julian chose to refrain from comment.
Two hours later they stormed out of the yard, Julian with drawn sword at the head of the column, Gabriel bringing up the rear on his charger, waving his broadsword and bellowing his war cry. Tamsyn drove the laden mules between them, cracking a mule whip with gleeful ferocity, the three less than fully conscious outriders swaying in their saddles but still brandishing weapons.
The village stayed behind its shutters, however, recognizing it had met its match. They found the other two outriders sitting beside the road, nursing bleeding heads but able to mount their horses, and the procession continued its way to Lisbon.
Chapter Twelve
“I DON'T KNOW THAT I CAN LET YOU HAVE THREE FOUR pounders, Captain Lattimer,” the ordnance master said with lugubrious satisfaction. “The Isolde took six yesterday.”
Captain Hugo Lattimer, R.N., controlled his irritation with difficulty. He ran a hand through his thick chestnut-brown hair and glanced around the ordnance wharf He'd been third in line that morning, and there were six other captains, as desperate as he to fit out their commands, waiting their turn to wheedle and cajole the ordnance master.
“If you could see your way to letting me have two, then I'll stand in your debt,” he said, smiling with what he hoped was sufficient obsequiousness. “How's Mrs. Huston? She was a bit under the weather last time I was in Lisbon.”
The other man's face softened slightly. “Oh, she's well enough, thank you, Captain. In an interesting condition.”
“Well, congratulations.” Captain Lattimer beamed as broadly as if it were his own lady about to present him with an heir. “Do give her my best regards.”
“Yes, yes indeed, I'll do that, thank you kindly. Now, it was three four-pounders you were wanting?”
“Exactly so,” Hugo said, allowing not a flicker of triumph to show in his green eyes. “And I'll be most grateful to you, sir.”
The ordnance master scribbled in his ledger, his face as pained as if he were losing blood, and handed over the precious requisition order. Hugo touched his gold-laced hat and left the ordnance wharf, exulting in his success.
The Lisbon morning was hot, but there was still a breath of spring in the air to soften the burning quality of a Portuguese summer that scorched even the coastal areas. The harbor seethed with life, feluccas, longboats, and fishing boats darting among the more ponderous merchant craft. Four British men-of-war lay in the outer roads, three ships of the line, and a dainty, thirty-six-gun frigate.
Captain Lattimer's eyes rested with pride on the Isaabelle's elegant lines as she swung at anchor. He raised his glass, examining his command. The Blue Peter was furled against her fore-top masthead, ready to be broken out when she sailed, and her decks were a bustle of activity. He nodded his satisfaction. Tomorrow morning they'd be under way, leaving the frustrating politics of harbor life behind.
“I beg your pardon, but do I have the honor of addressing Captain Lattimer?”
“You do, sir.” The captain turned and found himself facing a tall man of about his own age in the uniform of a cavalry colonel.
“Colonel St. Simon.” Julian extended his hand in greeting. “Admiral Moreton told me where I might find you.”
The harbor admiral was an infernal nuisance, always interfering in his captains' best-laid plans. “Indeed.” Hugo kept his expression impassive as he shook the colonel's hand. “How may I be of service, Colonel?”
“By giving me passage on your ship.” Julian came straight to the point. “I understand you're sailing for Portsmouth tomorrow.”
It was standard practice for a naval ship to carry diplomatic and army passengers. “I see no difficulty,” Hugo said, smiling with relief at this simple request.
Colonel St. Simon scratched his head a little uncomfortably and said, “Well, it's rather more. complicated than that, Captain. Do you have time to take a glass of wine with me, and I'll explain.”
“Tell me something,” Hugo said conversationally. “Am I going to have a choice, or do you have written orders for me from Admiral Moreton?”
“The admiral agreed to accommodate the wishes of the Duke of Wellington,” Julian said delicately. Traditionally, the navy was the senior service and even the commander in chief of the army would request rather than order a senior naval officer.
“I see. In that case perhaps you had better give me a glass of wine to soften the blow,” Hugo said wryly.
“I'm…” Julian cleared his throat. “We are putting up at the Rose. The taproom's pleasant enough.”
“By all means.” Hugo had not missed the change of pronoun.
They turned together away from the quay just as a figure came barrelling toward them in the broad-striped trousers and red waistcoat of a seaman, two hooped earrings swinging, a spotted handkerchief tied over his long tarred sailor's queue.
“Eh, Cap'n, sir. I've found us a brace of pigs, bonny as you please, and three nanny goats, burstin' with milk.” He beamed with pride.
“Good, Samuel. Listen, take this requisition and get it filled. Three four-pounders and as much round shot as you can squeeze out of ‘em.”
“Aye, sir.” The sailor took the parchment, cast an incurious glance at the captain's companion, and rolled away with his swaying seaman's gait.
“Samuel could find a filled scuttlebutt in a desert,” Hugo Lattimer commented as they turned into the cool dimness of the Rose. “Invaluable man.”
“I know the type,” Julian said, indicating a table in the window, instructing the waiter, “Lad, bring a bottle of port.”
The captain sat down, sweeping aside the skirts of his blue coat to free his sword. A dusty bottle and two glasses appeared; the wine was poured. The captain downed his first glass almost without tasting it.
“First one fast, second one slow,” he said without apparent humor, refilling his glass. “So let's hear the worst, Colonel.”
“Four passengers, three horses, and a mountain of baggage,” Colonel St. Simon stated bluntly.
“Dear God!” Captain Lattimer
stared at him. “How am I to find room in a frigate? The Isabelle is not a ship of the line, sir.”
Julian moved his hands in a gesture combining both comprehension and powerlessness. “The admiral seemed to think…”
“The admiral is an interfering old busybody who doesn't understand the first bloody thing about commanding a man-of-war. He's sailed a desk throughout his entire career,” Hugo said furiously. He refilled his glass and tossed the contents down his throat with a flick of his wrist.
Julian was accustomed to men who drank deeply, and refilled the captain's glass without giving it a second thought.
“Oh, there you are, I've been looking all over for you. You'll be pleased to know that we'll be two chests lighter… Oh, I beg your pardon?” Tamsyn stopped in midspeech and looked inquiringly at the gentleman in his white-Iapeled blue coat with its deep white cuffs and gold-buttoned sleeves.
“This is Captain Lattimer. And a taproom is no place for a lady.” Julian made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. He'd hoped to have everything settled with the captain before exposing him to the full effects of Tamsyn's presence.
“Well, I'm no lady, as you never tire of telling me,” Tamsyn said cheerfully, putting one booted foot on a spare chair, resting her arm on her knee. “Good morning, Captain. Are we to voyage in your ship?”
Hugo blinked at the diminutive figure with her vibrant violet eyes and the short shining cap of silvery hair. She was wearing a riding habit, the skirt hiked up by her inelegant stance to reveal leather britches. Not if I can avoid it, lass. It was a silent declaration as he thought of the havoc such an astonishingly unconventional creature could cause among the crew.
“In the name of grace, take your foot off there,” Julian said, sharply pulling the chair out from under her foot. “Sit down, if you must.”