by Tanya Jolie
“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 to 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 internall
y. 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 longer 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.
There seems to be one of them, perhaps two. In the darkness, he can see a figure, sprawling on the ground. Bugger must be passing out, he thinks. A twist to the neck, and...
“Bryce!”
“Sophie..?” Then, “What in Heaven's name?”
Bryce feels blinding rage enfold him and he hurtles from the woods towards the man, who sprawls on the ground. Bryce feels his hand tighten on the man's neck, as he forces his head into the leaves and strangles him at once. He is kneeling on his back, crushing the air from him.
“I'll kill you... kill you. Bastard... Bastard!” He can hear his own voice, snarling unrecognisably, in his ears, as he feels the warmth of the other man's throat beneath his hand.
“Bryce. Bryce?”
Bryce grunts and blinks. He hears her voice lancing through the blinding rage that fills his head.
“Leave him, Bryce. Leave him. He is as good as dead.”
He shakes his head, and looks down. The body of the man is lifeless under his hands.
“Come on.” Her voice is urgent. “Get away from here. They'll kill you.”
He opens his eyes. Focuses.
“No.” His voice is slurred with the lateness of the night and the action and sudden exhaustion. “No.” He says it again. “Taking you...with me. How can I... leave you here?”
He grips her shoulder. She shrugs, violently, throwing the grip off.
“Don't touch me!” She spits. She draws back. She is, Bryce notices, as the fog lifts from his mind, shivering. . Her eyes are wide, angry and glossed with tears of rage.
He steps back, raising his hands. “Easy, lass.”
“Go.” She snarls. Her fear for him mingles with her shock; and both are making her body shiver, violently. She is so cold.
“No.” He closes his eyes and grips her shoulder. “Not without you.”
“No!” She tries to break his grip, but it tightens. He closes his eyes tighter. He does not want to hurt her, but he cannot leave her here. That bastard was raping her! How can he leave her in a place where that could happen?
Heedless of her struggles, then, he drags her into the woods behind him and up the hill.
***
“Angus. Can you take the charge here? I need to get home. Urgently.” Bryce inclines his head towards where Sophie stands, near his horse.
“Aye, lad. Certainly.” Angus nods gravely. “You get yourself off home. Leave this to me.”
“Thank you.” Bryce grips his hand, firmly.
Sophie is standing with her back to him. She does not turn, when he comes up and puts his saddlebag across the saddle and turns to give her a lift onto the horse's back.
When he touches her body, she re
coils. . She sits in front of him stiffly as they start the long, slow ride back home.
It is morning, when they arrive in the clearing at the manor. The mist hangs over the buildings, soft in the first rays of morning's light.
“Here we are.” Bryce swings himself down, and lifts a hand up to Sophie. She takes it, unseeing, and slides off the horse.
Wordlessly, they cross the courtyard and walk to the house.
Inside, Sophie walks mechanically up the stairs to the East wing. She opens the door and closes it behind her. Sits down on the bed.
Ten minutes later, a maid comes in with a bathtub. Another joins her, with a bucket of water. They fill the bath and leave, without a word.
Five minutes later, Sophie walks over. Her eyes are blank. She takes the gossamer party-dress from her body coldly, then sinks into the warm water, and lets it close over her.
When the water is cold, she steps out. She slips on the floor. Her knee hits the hard surface and the ache of it is unbearable.
Suddenly, Sophie is crying. Sobbing. The tears flowing down her face. Her thoughts are wild and confused.
My knee hurts. Why more pain? Haven't I had enough?
Nothing happened. Nothing. Don't say it, don't think it; and nothing has happened. No-one knows.
Bryce? Why did you have to come back from the dead, then? I could hate you, for seeing me like that. Now you think nothing of me, too. Dragging me back here, like a cut of meat. I am nothing, now, aren't I? Nothing.
She sobs quietly to herself, until the water cools in the bath and her skin dries and then, exhausted, she crawls to the bed and sleeps.
***
Bryce is sitting in the breakfast room. It is evening. He has just come back from the forest, where he has spent the last weeks working with his men.
She wants nothing to do with me, he thinks, sadly, as he sits watching the long, slow light of evening between the trees.
I don't blame her, he adds, feelingly. Why would she want a man to come near her, after what that one did?
He decided that the best thing he could do would be to keep out of her way.
That was two weeks ago. Now, he has just returned. Mhaire has said nothing of Sophie, only reported that she will not eat and does not speak, and sends every platter back almost untouched. Even Mhaire seems to be blaming him, he thinks, sadly.