by Amanda Boone
“Thank you.”
They are both silent. Neither want to move.
“Well, then.” His voice is soft.
“Well?”
“We should go?”
“Yes.”
They both stand together. Their eyes meet. He leans forward, and their lips touch. Sophie closes her eyes.
Their arms find their way around each other, hesitant at first, then urgent. They are like that for a minute, it seems, or an eternity. Their lips entwine and meet and part, and the taste of her is warm and sweet. He feels the delicious shock of it go through him, igniting fuses he had thought long dead. He feels his arms tighten around her, urgent in their need to feel her close. She grips him as tightly, lost in the sweet warmth of his body and his mouth, hot and warm on hers.
After a full minute, Sophie leans back, her breath ragged.
They both look at each other speechlessly.
“Well, then.”
“Well, then.”
They walk outside in total silence and part at the edge of the forest.
Their hands clasp, and they stand together for a moment. He leans in and, gently, kisses her cheek, her brow, her mouth. Then he is gone
Sophie feels as if her heart might tear apart. She closes her eyes breathes in and walks onto the path.
There is a shout, and the sound of horses and guns. She looks up to see a horseman riding at her, and then there is blinding pain, and darkness, and then only a long, slow silence.
***
“Can you explain yourself, officer? What, precisely, did you think you were doing?”
The voice is dangerous and soft. It is, if Sophie thinks about it, a voice she should recognise.
“Sir.” Another voice is doing its best to answer the question. It is a younger voice, subdued and miserable
The two voices continue their conversation somewhere distant from Sophie
“I...I was trained to attack anything that comes out of that forest.” The younger voice begins. “We were tracking a dangerous rebel. Only yesterday, we shot two of his men. We were close, and I could not...take any chances with the safety of my men.”
“You assaulted my daughter, officer.” The first voice again. “Are you so blind, or merely stupid, that you cannot tell the difference between a Scottish rebel warlord and a nineteen year old girl?”
I am twenty, Father. Is Sophie's first thought. She is surprised by the weariness she feels. This is her father, her flesh and blood. But, right now, she cannot imagine anyone she wants to see less than that narrow, self-absorbed man.
She surprises herself. How long has she thought about him in that way? Perhaps all my life. Now, with her heart open, she can admit, for the first time, to the truth of how she feels.
Without Bryce, all things seem suddenly very small. And Bryce is gone. He is dead, she thinks to herself. They attacked you. They must have shot him. Accept it.
Part of her refuses to do so.
You will see him again, that part tells herself. Open your eyes.
Outside, the fight is still raging.
“And what do you think would have happened to her? What do you think would happen to a young woman, alone among the rebels?” Her father is still shouting at the young officer, his voice raised.
“I...” The officer is doing his best to reply.
“I am unharmed, father.” Sophie opens her eyes. Forces herself to sit up, despite the pain which is throbbing in her head. “No one impugned my honour, if that is your concern.”
She cannot help the sarcasm of that. His only care for her honour is her marriageability; of that she has no doubt.
She smiles, wryly, at the young officer. “I am grateful for the rescue, sir.”
Both men are staring at her now. . She looks back at them. Right now, she does not care about their shock. It serves you right, she thinks, savagely. If it were not for men like you, there would be no war.
Her father is the first to recover from the shock. He looks at the officer, who is gazing at her, open-mouthed. “Don't just stand there gaping, Lieutenant!” He wheels to face the man, snapping at him. “You have no right to see her so.”
The man blinks.
“Daughter?” Colonel Hogarth addresses Sophie. She stares at him, detachedly. “Cover yourself, and please accept the apologies of Lieutenant Brand. He has... had a trying day.”
He turns to the lieutenant, who is looking even more distressed and confused. Under other circumstances, Sophie would find that amusing.
“Officer,” her father's voice is brisk, “you are dismissed.”
The lieutenant nods. Remembers in whose presence he is. “Sir.” He salutes, crisply and exits.
“Daughter?” Her father starts again. “You are well? No harm has come to you?”
She keeps her eyes closed. Why can they not just leave her alone? She is weary and heartsick. Al she wants is sleep.
“Physician.” Her father snaps over his shoulder. “Give her something. She is weary and she needs to sleep.”
With that, he turns and walks out of the room.
Sophie is too tired and too uncaring to resist the dose of laudanum the camp physician presses to her lips.
She slips down into the blackness of the poppy-induced sleep and lets its dark waves wash over her head and claim her. Her last thought is of his face. Bryce.
***
Bryce is in the forest. It is night. He is sitting beside a camp-fire, the ruddy glow of it unkind to the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of distress that mark his face.
He turns to face the young officer beside him.
“How...how long do we stay here, sir?”
Bryce thinks slowly. Since the day that she left, that Sophie left, he has found it hard to care about the counter-attacks, the ambushes, the war.
But his men still care. They have lost companions. For them it is no empty game. He turns to face the man.
“Well, Willie. The idea is that we wait until they find us.” He nods, seeing the uncertainty creep into the young man's gaze.
“We're bait.” He says it cheerfully, and laughs. His men grimace at the hollow mirthlessness of it.
They have never seen their commander like this, and they do not like it.
“The idea is that the troops will come to us, here; and then Seamus Knott and his lads will sneak behind them and blow their brains out.” He says it grimly, but the men laugh.
“It's why we have the fires lit; so they can see us nicely in the dark.” He continues. He gestures at the camp.
“By tomorrow morning, or the next, the whole barracks will know where we are, and they will come and find us; you'll see.”
The thought of so many men, bearing down on them tomorrow, is not a pleasant thought. Here, they are on a hillside, directly above the barracks, two hours' ride up.
“I'll take the watch, lads.” Bryce calls out, swilling some thin ale out of a tin mug. “The rest of you, get some rest. You'll be needing all your strength tomorrow.”
He tips the last of the ale back, and walks the little way to the watch-post, his back to the fire. If it is cold, like tonight, one can almost hear the shouting and the goings-on down in the camp below from up here.
Sophie is down there. Bryce is sure of it. There is not a day when he does not think of her; when he does not remember her body pressed against his, the sweetness of her mouth, an anecdote or mannerism that makes his gut twist with the pain of losing her so soon.
In the fortnight since she left, his leg has got a little better, the swelling reduced by the poultice and the yarrow, he thinks, smiling wryly with bitter-sweet pain.
“That's Sophie, to you...” Her voice seems to whisper to him, eyes smiling at him from the darkness, bewitching. He shrugs, violently, to silence it.
He thinks he hears a violin. Music? The incongruity of that strikes him. Sure enough, there is music; flowing out of the barracks-hall and up the hill. Dancing music.
A celebration? He thinks it t
o himself. It must be. It seems so incongruous. Why would they be celebrating now, with the enemy camped so close? A trap? Perhaps.
He needs to go down the hill, find out what is happening down there.
“Andy?” He wakes one of the men.
“Aye?” The older man is instantly awake, sitting upright. “What is it, lad?”
“Something's not right down there.” Bryce whispers, not to wake the others. “I'm going down to have a look around.”
Bryce clasps Andy's shoulder. “You'll take the watch for me?”
“Aye.”
The older man walks heavily to the watch-post, and settles himself to keep watch. Bryce walks slowly down the hill.
The feeling of wrongness grows in his chest as he slides down the scree, trying to move as quietly as possible. It is not just the night and the music. Somehow, he seemed to feel Sophie call to him.
Like she was asking for help. Like she needed me. He shakes his head. Fanciful, he chides himself.
But he will not ignore such a call. He drops to a crouch and continues down the hill.
***
“Aren't you enjoying yourself, Daughter?” Colonel Hogarth's voice is loud, cultured and entirely failing to attract the attention of the pale young woman seated beside him.
He glances at her in irritation. Why does she just sit like that? Despite his irritation, he cannot help smiling smugly to himself at the way he has arranged things so neatly.
His daughter is here, and so are a half a dozen of the eligible sons of the nobility. She will surely find a husband here.
Lieutenant Brand, for all that the man's head must be stuffed with sawdust for having knocked her out, is quite taken with her. The son of Lord Blackmoor, he is quite eligible. A lord is a good match for a Viscount's daughter.
Anthony Hogarth sighs. If only she was more interested in the evening; in anything. She has changed so much.
“Come on, child!” He touches his daughter's shoulder, smiling with a desperate attempt at jollity.
Beside him, Sophie feels weary and desperately cold. She shivers in the gossamer-light chiffon gown, and draws a shawl of pulled silk tight around her shoulders, longing for its slight warmth.
The whole ball fills her with a sense of revulsion. She knows why she is here. She knows that this is a market, with her body as the wares and her future as the barter, in exchange for further respectability for her father.
Let them sell me, she thinks, her thoughts desultory. What do I care? Bryce is dead. I might as well be, too.
“The honourable Miss Hogarth?”
Sophie looks up, her wide, long-lashed green eyes entirely blank.
“Miss Hogarth?” His voice is hesitant.
Sophie turns the empty stare to him, her gaze wide and completely disinterested, unfocused. The man who addresses her seems not to notice her lack of interest.
“Miss Hogarth. I am Lieutenant Charles Brand. May I ask you for the honour of the next dance?”
Oh, God. She is thinking inwardly. Why? Just leave me alone and let me have my peace. I hate false jollification, I hate this ball, and I hate all of you. Let me sleep.
Sophie nods. “Yes.”
She holds out a hand. He takes it and, against all propriety, kisses it, hard, the cold white satin of her glove remote and scented beneath his lips.
Sophie feels herself shudder. Something about that sudden imposition felt like an invasion. She stands and gives a little curtsey. “Lieutenant Brand?” She hopes, now, he will leave.
“My lady.”
He could not have said something worse. She grits her teeth. That's Sophie to you...The words of her last conversation with Bryce echo around her head, mocking her.
The violins start another measure, the introduction to a minuet, lilting and graceful. Sophie groans, as Lieutenant Brand takes her hand. Then they are dancing through the measure.
Sophie feels stiff and wooden. Each time Lieutenant Brand's hand touches her waist, she feels herself stiffen with revulsion. Something about the man, and his presumed ownership of her, makes her feel wrong inside. The only man she wants is Bryce, and Bryce is dead.
I don't want this. I don't want to be here. Let go of my hand. She almost pulls her hand from his.
“My lady.” He says again. He is bowing over her hand. He is, Sophie reflects, slightly drunk. She tries to extricate herself politely.
She hears a voice behind her.
“Daughter!” It is her father.
“Lieutenant.” He continues, smiling at the man warmly, even though even Sophie, through her resentment, can see her father thinks the man is a complete mutton-head.
“I am pleased to see you cut such a fine figure in the dance, Lieutenant. I think it good that my soldiers are as cultured as they are lethal. I will be looking for men like you for senior office; if you show your worth.”
Oh, God. Sophie groans internally. Not enough to force her to dance with the man, to be charming, now he offers him promotion in exchange for marrying her? She wants to scream.
She smiles, tightly. “If you men have matters of warfare to discuss?” She raises her eyebrows, sweetly, tilting her head towards the refreshments table. At least she can use this moment to get away.
“Oh, no, Daughter. I wouldn't dream of keeping him from such charming companionship as yours.”
Damn you, Sophie thinks, savage. Damn you, and damn him. Damn everything.
“Very well.” She smiles, acidly. “I shall stay and entertain the lieutenant. I am sure Colonel Lawford has something important to discuss.”
She inclines her head to where a portly, retired Colonel is standing patiently near her father's place. At least, she thinks, he can suffer being bored to death and being told what-for by the old officer. She has the satisfaction of seeing her father close his eyes. She knows he is already feeling a headache coming on.
“I'll leave you to the Colonel, then Father?”
She smiles sweetly, and, as Lieutenant Brand crosses the room with a glass of sweet wine, she smiles at him, and takes the proffered glass.
***
“Come now, step easy. I've...got your hand.”
Colonel Brand's voice is unsteady, as he and Sophie walk out in the night.
Behind them, some of the guests have taken to the garden as well, seeking the airy coolness.
Before them, the forest is whispering, alive with the night. Why am I here? Sophie thinks, distraught. And why won't this man leave me alone?
“S'alright,” Colonel Brand slurs a little. “I've got your hand. You won't fall.”
You might, Sophie thinks, acidly. He is, by now, rather profoundly inebriated. “Thank you, kind Sir.” She says instead, smiling. If he cannot hear the sarcasm in that tone, he is drunk indeed.
She stands at the margin of the trees, aching to enter the silent peace of the forest. Impulsively, she takes her hand from his, and steps into the wood. Just a short way, she thinks, and I will be rid of him and I can be alone with my thoughts of Bryce.
Bryce. For a moment, she almost thinks she can see him. Then she shakes her head. Takes two more paces into the trees and sinks to the ground, her arms around her knees.
Sophie stays there for a while, and then she decides to go back. She should rejoin the party before her father notices she is gone. She starts the walk back.
“So! A forest elf, are we?”
Colonel Brand looms out of the trees. He is blocking the path before her, completely sated with drink.
Sophie grits her teeth and walks forward, trying to push past.
“Not so fast.” He grabs her wrist. “The pretty forest elf wants to get away, eh?” He lifts her fingers to his lips. “Why leave, pretty elf?”
Sophie feels herself stiffen with revulsion, but lets him hold her hand to his lips. He is strong, and dangerous. Perhaps if she ignores it, he will stop. Even he must know some limit, some propriety?
His lips part, warm saliva on the back of her silk-gloved hand. She can no longe
r suppress the revulsion.
“You are drunk, Sir. You will stand aside to let me pass.” Her voice is trembling. He is big, and armed, and she is alone, and desperately afraid.
“...S'funny.” he is continuing, as if he has not heard her. “I've wanted you since that day I saw you in bed.” His voice is cracking, now, maudlin. “I need you. How can you deny me?”
Despite herself, Sophie feels compassion. How can she deny him what he needs? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I can do that.
Her head is pounding, and she is desperately afraid. She is all alone in the forest, with an unpredictable man. But if she screams for help, the humiliation will ensure she can never again enter society. What choice does she have? None.
His arm has crept around her shoulder, and his hand is feeling for her breast. She feels her whole body tense. This feels repulsively wrong. She thinks of Bryce, and his warm kiss on her lips. That was so beautiful, so wonderful. Bryce.
She feels a tugging at the ties of her dress. She tries to struggle, but the grip around her shoulders tightens.
“...No...” her voice is a thread, But she is unpractised in denials, and she knows he has no reason to heed her. He could strangle her, if he wanted to.
And, stupidly, she feels guilt; as if she owes him this. It's what Father would want, she thinks, crazily. He wants me to have to marry this man. He will be happy, Colonel Brand will be happy. And why do I care? Bryce is gone. If he loved me, he would have kept me with him.
She closes her eyes. Feels her dress open down the back, the night air on her skin. She feels his touch, skin-crawlingly repulsive, on her bare shoulder. She shudders. Bryce, her mind calls. She tries to lose herself in thoughts of him. Bryce.
***
In the bushes, from his vantage point behind a tree, Bryce hears a laugh.
Hellfire! He thinks. I am close, now. He drops to the ground.
Bryce has been walking, tortuously silently down the hill, for about two hours. He is at the base of it now, near the camp. Up ahead, he can see and hear movement, and the same grunting laugh as before.
Damn fellow must have had too much, Bryce thinks to himself. He's probably vomiting in the trees, there.