by James McGee
Hawkwood laughed. “Frequently, Major.” He thought it was probably wise not to tell the major about the ribbons of sweat that had been running down his back as he had listened to Neville counting out the steps.
They had reached the footpath that ran alongside the King’s Road. Ahead of them lay the Hyde Park turnpike and the road leading to Piccadilly.
“Well, at least we can be thankful for one thing,” Lawrence mused. “Rutherford’s unlikely to announce his defeat, especially when it was at the hands of someone who’s not even a gentleman!” The major grinned again then added seriously, “And I doubt Neville and Campbell will be anxious to spread gossip.”
That was probably true, Hawkwood conceded. Duels were generally accepted to be private affairs. Although, over the years, there had been a few notable exceptions; usually when one or both of the principals possessed a high public profile. Fortunately, neither he nor Rutherford, despite the latter’s own high opinion of himself, fell into that category, so it was conceivable the affair would remain undetected by the authorities. The major had already assured Hawkwood that Mandrake’s servant had been taken care of. The jingle of sovereigns and the threat of reprisal had been sufficient to ensure that the footman’s mouth would remain for ever closed. As for the other witness, the woman, Hawkwood reasoned she was unlikely to advertise the incident. More probably she would want to put the whole sordid business behind her.
Had he killed Rutherford, of course, it would have been a different matter. The major had railed against Rutherford’s arrant pig-headedness in not retracting his challenge. If the truth were told, Hawkwood asked himself, was he any different? In a moment of crass stupidity, aggravated by his own bitter prejudices, he’d allowed himself to be goaded into a senseless confrontation. The fact that he’d survived was due to nothing less than good fortune based on the inexperience and poor marksmanship of his opponent. In short, he had been lucky.
He thought about James Read. The Chief Magistrate was a stern taskmaster but a fair one. He worked his officers hard, but in doing so, mindful of the often adverse conditions in which they operated, he allowed them an extraordinary degree of latitude. In exchange, he demanded and expected total dedication and loyalty. It was a matter of trust. By rising to the bait and accepting Rutherford’s challenge, Hawkwood was fully aware he’d betrayed that trust. And in doing so he had jeopardized everything; not only his career but his relationship with a man to whom he owed a great deal, a man he admired. Had he killed Rutherford, Hawkwood knew that his severest punishment would have been facing the look of disappointment on James Read’s face.
Hawkwood flinched as pain from the wound flared across his belly. He should have let the physician examine him, he reflected, but then he remembered the man’s palsied hand shake. Medical attention would have to wait.
They had reached the public road. Opposite was the path that cut through to Knightsbridge.
Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the park, the roads had been empty. Now, however, the city was emerging from its slumbers and the streets had started to fill. The number of vehicles had increased considerably, as had the flow of pedestrians. Barrow men, flower sellers, knife grinders and chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with candle makers, coal men and rag pickers; soon the trickle would become a flow and the flow would become a flood. It reminded Hawkwood of the rag-tag columns of camp followers that trailed in the wake of Wellington’s armies as they marched across the Peninsula. A meandering river of pathetic pilgrims in search of a promised land.
They were on the point of crossing the road when the rattle of carriage springs caused them to pause. Hawkwood stepped back and waited for it to pass. Then he realized the carriage was slowing. As it drew abreast, the coachman hauled in the reins and the carriage stopped. The door opened.
“Captain Hawkwood?”
The breath caught in his throat. He recognized the voice immediately. He stared. She was alone in the carriage, a dark cloak drawn across her shoulders. She leaned forward, inclined her head, and acknowledged Lawrence’s presence with a seductive smile.
“Good morning, Major.”
“Indeed it is, ma’am,” Lawrence agreed, doffing his shako. The major glanced at Hawkwood and a broad grin broke out across his face.
Transfixed by Lawrence’s imbecilic expression, it occurred to Hawkwood that the major did not seem at all surprised by the woman’s appearance. His suspicions were further heightened when Lawrence, in a woeful impersonation of spontaneous thought, pulled out his watch, gave it a cursory glance, held it to his ear, shook it, and announced, apologetically, “Ahem…well, now, if you’ll both forgive me, I must be away. Regimental duties, you understand. Fact is I’m due to meet up with young Fitz in an hour. I packed the lad off to his family for a couple of days. Thought it best, as there’s no knowing when we’ll be home again. As it is, we’ve precious little time to lick our new recruits into shape before we ship ’em off to Spain.”
Before Hawkwood could respond, the major stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, my dear fellow. It was a pleasure. I do hope we’ll meet again.” He glanced into the carriage and gave a short bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Hawkwood had to admit it had been neatly done. One moment the major was there, as large as life, the next he was gone. If nothing else, one had to admire his nerve.
The rustle of a petticoat made him turn. She was gazing at him, her expression both mischievous and beguiling. “Well, Captain Hawkwood, won’t you join me?”
Hawkwood looked up at the driver. The man’s features were indecipherable, hidden as they were behind his collar and cap. His whip was poised.
The moment of indecision passed. Hawkwood climbed into the carriage. As if on a given signal, the driver flicked his whip and the vehicle moved off.
“You’re surprised to see me?” Amusement illuminated her dark eyes.
Hawkwood stared at her, his senses racing.
“Then perhaps my appearance disappoints you?” she challenged.
Hawkwood found his voice. “How did you know I’d be here?”
The cloak slipped off her shoulder. She was wearing a high bodice, but even that could not disguise the curve of her breasts. She returned his stare and, with disarming frankness, said, “The major sent me word.”
So, Hawkwood thought, Lawrence’s guilt was proven. No wonder the bastard had been grinning like a lunatic.
She smiled bewitchingly. “Did you think we wouldn’t meet again?”
He took in the smooth line of her throat, the soft swell beneath the bodice. “I thought it unlikely.”
“But you hoped we might?” Her eyes searched his face.
He nodded. “Yes.” He was amazed at himself for admitting it so readily. He recalled that she had addressed him by his former rank and wondered what other information the major might have given away.
“Did you kill him?” she asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.
Hawkwood collected himself. “Rutherford? No, he’ll live. He might die from embarrassment, but that’s all.”
She considered his answer in silence. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disappointed. He decided to match her directness. “So, why did you come?”
She looked across at him, the smile still hovering on her full lips. “You realize, Captain Hawkwood, we’ve yet to be formally introduced. My name is Catherine—”
“I know who you are,” Hawkwood said, before he could stop himself.
Her eyes widened. “And how do you know that, Captain?”
Hawkwood grinned. “The major sent me word.”
She laughed then, the light dancing in her eyes. I could fall for this one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered why, despite her obvious attractions, the possibility disturbed him.
“So,” he repeated, “why did you come?”
Her reply and gaze was as direct as before.
“Why do you think?”
8
Hawkwood lay pressed back against the pillow, his arm around he
r waist. Her cheek rested on his chest. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing softly. The bed sheets lay in disarray around them. They were both naked.
The carriage had delivered them to a fashionable house on the corner of Portman Square. There were no servants in evidence, other than a maid who had opened the door and curtseyed low before disappearing, at her mistress’s bidding, to her own quarters. Her services, she had been told, would not be required for the rest of the day. The girl had expressed no surprise at Hawkwood’s presence.
Once inside, her first action had been to tend his wound.
She had become aware of his injury when the carriage wheels hit a pothole. The carriage bounced hard on its springs, jolting Hawkwood out of his seat. He had let out an involuntary grunt of pain and pressed his hand to his stomach. Her reaction had been immediate.
“You’re hurt!”
“A scratch. It’s nothing.”
“Let me see.” Before he could stop her, she had pulled his jacket away. “My God! There is blood! You’re wounded!”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“But you need attention! A doctor!”
“The hell I do! I’ll not be prodded and poked by some damned apothecary. Bastards pass on more infections than they cure.”
It occurred to Hawkwood that he should probably have been more mindful of his language, given that he was in the company of a lady and not in some dockside tavern. The amusement playing across her lips, however, hinted that his vocabulary was not her main concern.
“Then you will let me take care of you. No, not another word, Captain,” she cautioned as Hawkwood opened his mouth to protest. “I insist upon it!”
The look in her eyes warned Hawkwood that it would be wiser not to resist.
She had shown him to a couch in the drawing room before removing her cloak and disappearing, returning with a bowl of hot water and bandages.
“Take off your shirt,” she commanded.
Hawkwood hesitated.
“Must I do it for you?” Her eyes flashed. “If you are concerned about my being compromised, there’s no need. My maid is discreet and gone to her room, and there’s no one else to disturb us.” She smiled. “Or is it that you are embarrassed? Surely not? Not my brave captain?”
Hawkwood sighed. “I’m not a captain. I’m not anything. Not any more.”
“But you’re still my hero,” she murmured softly. “Now, take off your shirt.”
She did not look away. Instead her gaze moved frankly over his body, taking in not only the blood-encrusted runnel below his ribs but the older scars that crisscrossed his torso. Her attention was drawn to a crescent of puckered skin etched into the flesh beneath his left arm. Caused by a heavy blade of some kind, she presumed. A circular, discoloured indentation high on his right shoulder suggested a bullet wound, while a thin weal an inch below his left nipple looked as if it might have been made by a knife. It was a body mauled by war and almost twenty years of soldiering.
As with most superficial wounds, the degree of blood was disproportionate to the damage sustained. Nevertheless, despite her gentle ministrations, he was forced to bite his lip more than once as she dabbed away the rind of congealed blood. Once the wound was cleansed, he knew the healing would be quick. As a result, the scarring was likely to be negligible, just another addition to the painful legacies of battle.
By the time she had finished, the water in the bowl had cooled to lukewarm and turned crimson. She reached for the bandages.
“Sit up,” she instructed.
A frisson of pleasure moved through him as he caught the faint scent of her perfume; jasmine, he guessed, with perhaps a hint of wild lemon. He felt her breath, light as a feather on his neck, as she leaned in and wound the bandage around him. For a moment, their eyes met. Her hands stopped moving, her breasts rose and fell invitingly before him.
“I think it’s time,” she whispered.
Hawkwood frowned. “For what?”
Her steady gaze transfixed him. “Your reward.”
She looked down on him through a tangle of lustrous black hair. Her skin was the colour of cinnamon. The dark tips of her breasts brushed his skin. Wordlessly, reaching down between them, her fingers searched for him. Hawkwood felt himself respond. She bent her left knee, straddled him, and gave a small moan of pleasure. All the time her eyes remained open, watching him. Encircling him with her hand, she began to massage him gently.
“I want you,” she breathed.
She released him, lowered her head and kissed his neck, her teeth nipping playfully at his skin. Her tongue flickered along the line of his jugular. Her lips were warm and moist. She moved down his body, nuzzling his chest, kissing his scars. Her hands traced his hips, caressed his thighs. Her head sank lower. Her lips enfolded him and Hawkwood surrendered to the moment.
When she sensed he could hold back no longer, she disengaged her mouth and tongue, raised herself on to her knees and lowered herself carefully. Head thrown back, eyes closed, she began to move urgently against him.
She cried out as she came, the shudders moving through her. Hawkwood held her tightly as she fell across him, trembling like a bird.
He had been unprepared for the aggressive way in which she had taken the initiative, undressing with tantalizing slowness until, clad only in silk stockings, she had opened her legs and spread herself before him. His skin still smarted where her nails had raked his shoulders as he had taken her.
A bright sheen of sweat covered their bodies. A light breeze rippled coolly through the open window, ruffling the drapes. Hawkwood pulled the sheet over them both.
Hawkwood stroked the smooth cleft of her buttocks. She sighed, pressed herself to him, rotated her hips, and kissed the underside of his jaw. “You realize,” she murmured, “I don’t even know what they call you.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Why, your friends, of course. Or do you expect me to address you as Captain Hawkwood all the time?” She looked up at him and smiled. Her fingers traced small circles on his chest.
A moment passed.
It occurred to Hawkwood that the number of people he might have regarded as friends was depressingly small. Over the years there had been acquaintances, men he had fought alongside; some brave, some foolish, a few cowardly. But true friends? Individuals he would willingly have given his life for away from the fever of battle? Precious few, when it came down to it. Probably no more than could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and most of them already dead. There was Jago, of course. All things considered, he supposed the ex-sergeant was as close to him as anyone, or at least had been before their return to England. These days, he wasn’t so sure, given that Jago now ran with the hares while his own allegiance lay with the hounds. And in any case, in all the years they had been together, Jago would never have had cause nor, for that matter, the inclination to address him by his first name. In the army, even where friendship was concerned, rank would always prevail. As for the present, there was a wellworn saying among his fellow officers: a Bow Street Runner never made friends, only informers.
“Matthew,” Hawkwood said. “My name’s Matthew.”
“So, my Matthew,” she said softly. “Tell me about the scars on your throat.”
Not so much scars as an uneven necklace of faded bruising running from the hollow below his right jaw-line to the area of skin below his right ear. Hidden beneath his collar, the discoloration might have gone unnoticed, but in removing his shirt the marks had become visible.
Hawkwood reached up and covered her exploring hand. Sensing the change in him, she frowned. “You’re afraid to tell me?” Then she gave a small intuitive gasp. “Wait, I understand. C’est une…” her brow furrowed as she searched for the words “…a mark of birth, yes?”
Hawkwood stroked her flank, marvelling at the satin texture. It was not the first time he had been asked about the marks on his throat, nor was it the first time he had avoided an explanation of their origin. They were not a
birthmark, nor were they a souvenir of his soldiering or his career as a Runner. They belonged to a more distant past; a dark time of his life he had no desire to revisit, and a reminder of how, in the blink of an eye, a man’s destiny could be changed for ever.
“Oh, my poor Matthew,” she said, sensing his disquiet. Resting her arms across his chest, fingers entwined, she looked up at him. “Tell me everything. I want to know it all.” She eyed him speculatively. “Is it usual for an officer of the law to fight a duel? Over a woman?” Her kittenish expression mocked him.
“It would probably depend on the woman,” Hawkwood said.
She feigned annoyance and gave his arm a playful slap then lowered her head and kissed the spot tenderly. She regarded him levelly and her expression grew serious. “So, tell me, my Captain, when you were a soldier, did you kill many men?”
“I never kept a tally.”
She elevated herself on to one elbow, ran a fingertip along the muscle in his forearm. “But you did fight and kill?”
“Yes.”
“Frenchmen? Bonaparte’s soldiers?”
“Mostly.” Hawkwood wondered where this was leading.
She sensed his hesitation. “You do not like to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
She frowned. “It disturbed you? The killing?”
“Not at the time.”
She stretched languorously. “So, you enjoyed it?” It sounded almost like a challenge. Once again Hawkwood was reminded of a cat sated after a saucer of cream.
“It was war. I was a soldier. They were the enemy. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Is that why you let Lord Rutherford live? You had the choice?”
“Let’s just say I’ve grown tired of seeing men die needlessly.”
She sat up quickly. “Had I been you, I would not have been so forgiving. I would have killed him!”
Her sudden vehemence startled him.
“You doubt me?” she asked. Her look dared him to contradict.