by M. J. Putney
Tory gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed! You’ve made the local women into convincing British troops.”
“It is working well, isn’t it?” Cynthia said, pleased. “Lucky the French will be far enough from the bluff that a general impression of redcoats will do.”
“Let’s hope the French are sufficiently intimidated!” Tory hadn’t told the other girls about Allarde’s vision of a possible battle. There was no need for all of them to worry. But Tory’s nerves were tied in knots.
Then they waited. Eleven o’clock was the hour Allarde had specified in his ultimatum. It came and went. Waves rolled onto the sands, then retreated. Seabirds hopped by, unimpressed by military might as they searched for rations.
By eleven thirty Tory was twitching with restlessness, but Allarde maintained his calm expression. He had the nerves to make a real general.
Then she heard a sound in the distance. “Drums,” she breathed. “I hear drums.”
Boom. Boom! BOOM!!! The drums grew louder and louder, sending ominous vibrations through the noonday air.
The French troops appeared in the misty distance as they approached along the wide sweep of sand toward the British. Major Girard rode at the head of the column with a handful of other officers. They looked as if they were marching to war, heads up, banners flying, and no white flag in sight.
Tory barely breathed, knowing the next moments were crucial. Even now, Girard might shout the order for his men to drop into firing position and pour a fusillade of musket balls into the British formation. She had a brief, horrific vision of broken bodies sprawled across the sands and the incoming tides turning red with blood.
Sensing the catastrophic possibilities, Allarde stood up in his stirrups to his full, impressive height. Cupping one hand around his mouth, he called out in a thundering voice, “Surrender, Major Girard!” He swept his hand toward the bluffs on his left. “You cannot hope to defeat a force of our size on our home ground!”
Tory felt Cynthia’s magic surge, and the hundreds of figures at the top of the misty bluff became even more convincing ranks of British troops in scarlet jackets and tall black shako hats with muskets at the ready. Tory would have wondered if the reinforcements really had arrived if she hadn’t felt the huge strain in Cynthia.
She unobtrusively nudged her horse closer so that her calf touched her friend’s. As she added more magic, Cynthia’s tension eased to the point where she should be able to maintain the illusion for hours.
Girard turned his head and lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the sun. His posture stiffened and his face twisted with anguish as he accepted that he must surrender his forces. War and peace had been weighing in the balance, just as Allarde had foretold.
Tory exhaled, dizzy with relief. There would be no blood on the sands today. The French halted two hundred yards away, close enough that Tory could see the expressions of individual soldiers. They looked grimly resigned.
Girard dismounted and walked toward the British, several of his officers accompanying him on foot. Allarde also dismounted and moved forward, Tory and the other staff and senior officers a step behind.
When the commanders met, Major Girard bowed from the waist, then pulled his sword from its sheath. Holding the blade with both hands, he offered the weapon to Allarde. “Sir, my sword. I ask that you allow us the traditional honors of war.”
Tory saw Allarde’s hesitation and guessed that he didn’t know what the traditional honors of war were. Certainly Tory didn’t.
Bran said smoothly, “General, I recommend the French be allowed to keep their banners, for they have not been defeated in battle, but they must lay down their weapons.”
Allarde nodded gravely as he accepted the sword. “It shall be as my aide says, Major Girard. You surrender because you are a wise officer who will not lead his men to death for no reason. But your troops were not defeated, and they may carry their banners into captivity. It’s likely that you will be exchanged for British prisoners before too many months have passed.”
“I pray it shall be so.” Girard stepped back and saluted. Allarde passed the sword to Jack, who was on his other side, and returned the salute. Tory was intrigued by all the formality. She hadn’t known that surrender had its own set of rules.
Allarde glanced at her and for an instant let his enormous relief show. Then he turned stern again as he began to oversee the laying down of arms. Long lines of French troops marched between the columns of British militia and yeomanry, then laid their muskets on the sand in piles that grew higher and higher.
The surrender was almost complete when marching music was heard in the distance. “‘Rhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech’!” Bran exclaimed joyfully. “‘The March of the Men of Harlech’! It’s the Welsh marching song. The reinforcements are almost here!”
The sound made Tory’s heart leap. The Cardiff troops had arrived in time to take over the French prisoners. The Irregulars could go home.
The troops appeared from the east, marching down the wide expanse of sand. They were dusty and showed signs of having pushed themselves to the limit to get here, but they maintained good order. They halted by the growing mass of French prisoners.
“It’s time to turn over my temporary command,” Allarde said as he remounted and rode to meet the new arrivals. Naturally his staff followed. Tory had come to realize that following the leader was what staff did.
The commander of the reinforcements was a stocky colonel with a muscular build and shrewd eyes. He looked like a real officer, not someone who had bought a commission. Allarde rode up to him. “Sir, I relinquish command of my forces. It’s time I returned to my own duties.”
As they exchanged salutes, the colonel said, “Good that you were here, General Blakesley. After we’ve got this lot safely locked up”—he glanced at the French prisoners—“join me for dinner so you can explain how you persuaded a much larger force to surrender.”
Tory winced internally. The colonel must know the real General Blakesley. This could prove awkward.
Allarde inclined his head politely. “I thank you for the kind invitation, but I must be off immediately.”
The colonel looked puzzled. “Surely you can wait until tomorrow, Blake?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s good I happened to be here when the French landed, but I can’t neglect my own command.” Allarde nodded toward Bran. “My aide-de-camp here will be happy to provide you with the details.”
The colonel nodded approvingly. “I see you put your Royal Marine training to good use, lad.”
“I’ve done my best, Colonel Griffith,” Bran replied as he snapped a salute.
Griffith chuckled. “You’re too junior an officer to invite to dinner, but as my godson, you can come and tell me all about it.”
The colonel was Bran’s godfather? The sooner the Irregulars got out of here, the better! Allarde obviously agreed as he said farewell to Griffith.
As the colonel rode off to take charge of the surrender, Allarde turned to Bran and offered his hand. “We made a good team, didn’t we?”
Bran shook his hand fervently. “I already owed you a debt. Instead of being able to balance the scales, I now owe you even more.”
“Since neither of us wanted to see a French invasion succeed and all our skills were needed to make this happen, I’d say we’re even,” Allarde said with a smile. “We’ll be off now. I hope there wasn’t too much damage done to your house.”
Bran grimaced. “My mother is not going to be happy to hear about this, but at least they didn’t burn the place down.”
He and Allarde exchanged salutes, then Bran headed off to help with the surrender. Allarde collected the Irregulars with a glance. Then he rode away from the crowded beach, still in character as the terse general.
When they were well out of sight and earshot, Allarde halted and they gathered in a circle. “That was close!” Jack exclaimed. “It would have been awkward to explain who we really are, and that you aren’t General Blakesley. But we did
well.”
Elspeth asked gravely, “Did blocking this invasion eliminate the danger of Britain being conquered by the French?”
“No,” Allarde said, his voice flat. “There is worse to come.”
Some of the exhilaration faded. “If there are more threats, we’ll just have to deal with them as they occur.” Cynthia shifted restlessly in her saddle. “But for now, I’m ready to head for home. I want to sleep in a comfortable bed tonight!”
“Rather than walk, we can ask the farmer who owns these horses to ride out to the stone circle with us,” Elspeth suggested. “Then he can bring our mounts home.”
“Tory and I will go with you and return the horses.” Allarde released the illusion of General Blakesley and became himself again. “We’re returning to Lackland by coach so I can visit my parents at Kemperton.”
After a moment of startled surprise, Cynthia said, “You’re not taking us back through the mirror, Tory?”
“You don’t need me,” Tory said. “Elspeth got you safely to France, so I shouldn’t think she’d have a problem hopping from here to Lackland.”
Elspeth nodded. “But you’ll be gone for days more, Tory. Allarde’s absence can be excused on the grounds of a summons from his father or some such, but you’ve claimed to be sick in your room before. The school authorities will surely get suspicious.”
Tory shrugged. “I suspect that as long as we don’t do anything obvious that requires us to be punished as an example to the other students, we’ll be left alone. If I’m questioned, I’ll say that I accidentally wandered into mysterious tunnels under the abbey, and it took me days to find my way out.”
“Which is certainly plausible,” Jack said with a grin.
Tory glanced down at herself. All three of the girls had long since given up using the gown illusions Cynthia had created. Since they were riding astride and pretending to be army officers, it was easier to stay with the trousers they actually wore. “I wish I’d brought some proper clothes with me. Allarde’s parents will not be impressed.”
“They’ve met you before, and they both like you,” Allarde said with a warm smile. “What you wear this time won’t matter.”
Wrong. Even if his parents didn’t care, Tory did. Confidence mattered, and she needed to look like a girl who was worth the renunciation of a dukedom.
“Perhaps I can buy a simple used gown here, then enhance it with the illusion stone Cynthia gave me.” She dug out the stone and imagined herself in the illusion gown. A shiver of magic moved over her.
The stone still worked, because Cynthia remarked, “It looks odd for you to be suddenly sitting astride a horse in a gown, but at least it’s proper female attire. Illusion gowns are convenient since they never need washing or ironing. If you use the illusion with a real gown, it won’t take much magic at all for you to maintain it.”
Tory handed the stone to Cynthia. “Could you add a second illusion to the stone? One that shows me dressed appropriately for a family dinner with a duke.”
Cynthia folded the stone in her palm and closed her eyes. After a few moments of concentration, she handed it back. “This should work. I added a fancy blue gown that will go well with your eyes. I also made the existing day dress fashionable enough that you won’t look like a housemaid.”
“For which I am grateful.” Tory mentally thought of herself in an evening dress. Again magic tingled over her skin.
“Oh, very nice,” Jack said admiringly. “That really makes Tory’s eyes shine like the evening sky. You do such good work, Cinders.”
“Indeed,” Allarde said with a slow, appreciative smile for Tory.
Tory closed her eyes and thought of herself in the new day dress. When she’d done so, Cynthia commented, “Good. You look like a female of means and taste.”
“You could make an excellent living for yourself creating faux gowns,” Elspeth said with a laugh. “A woman who aspires to fashion could hire your services to make it appear she has a huge wardrobe.”
Cynthia chuckled. “I can have a shop and call it Lady Cynthia’s Weather Work and Fashion Consultancy.”
“Now that we have everyone sorted out, it’s off to the stone circle,” Jack said. “I’m ready to go home!”
So was Tory. But she’d be taking the long way round.
CHAPTER 21
Tory and Allarde escorted their friends to the stone circle, watched them go through the mirror, and waited to receive a message confirming that they’d made it safely home. Then they led the borrowed horses back to their owner.
It was almost dark by then, so Mr. Gwillim, the farmer who’d loaned them the mounts, invited them for dinner. He and his son had loaded their fowling pieces and stood with the volunteers while his wife and two daughters had worn their red shawls and black hats in ranks of women on the bluff, so they were in a celebratory mood.
The Gwillims also wanted to hear more about the magelings’ adventures. Tory and Allarde described driving off the French ships and invading the French fortress to blow up the arsenal, but Allarde’s impersonation of the general was not mentioned. The real General Blakesley could take the credit if he wanted to.
Deciding to take advantage of the goodwill, Tory asked if there was an old gown she could buy. Gaenor, the younger Gwillim daughter, was happy to produce a morning gown she’d outgrown. “I was going to put a ruffle on it to make it longer,” she explained, “but it’s happy I’ll be to give it to one of the heroines of Tregwilli!”
The gown was pale blue linen, simple in style but sturdy and well made. Tory said doubtfully, “Are you sure? If you lengthen this, it will be good for years longer.”
“If I give it to you, my mam will have to buy me the fabric to make another,” Gaenor explained. “There’s the prettiest calico print at the draper’s shop in Carmarthen!”
Tory laughed. “In that case, I’ll accept it most gratefully.”
“I’ll give you a shift as well. ’Tis mended but clean.”
Tory gave Gaenor a swift hug. “I’ll keep both forever in remembrance of the South Wales Women’s Army!”
The Gwillims were still celebrating when Tory and Allarde walked back to the Royal Oak. Tory was so tired that she stripped off her male garments, donned the soft muslin shift, and went right to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. The bedroom seemed very empty without Cynthia and Elspeth.
She gazed into the darkness and realized that some of her restlessness was Allarde’s. Impersonating a commanding general had been hugely stressful, and he was about to return to his beloved home and renounce his inheritance. Of course he was tied in knots.
With Jack gone, Allarde had the boys’ room to himself. Tory climbed from the bed and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders against the cold. Sometimes a blanket was just easier than using magic. Then she slipped from the room and walked quietly down the corridor to Allarde’s bedroom. The lock was simple and it took her only a moment to unlock the door and step inside.
“Justin?” she said softly.
He sat up in the bed, a shadow among shadows. “Is something wrong, Tory?”
She took a deep breath as she gathered her nerve. “We both agree that we must wait until we can be … fully together. But it’s dreadfully wasteful to be sleeping in separate beds when we have this opportunity to share one.” When he hesitated, she added uncertainly, “We spent a night together in France.”
“Fully dressed on the rocky floor of a cave,” he said tautly. “Lying in a real bed would be … more challenging.”
Her face burned in the darkness. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested this.” She turned to leave.
“No!” He leaped from the bed and caught her before she opened the door, pulling her back against him when he wrapped his arms around her waist. He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “It will be worth every shred of challenge to have you with me.”
The blanket fell from her shoulders as she turned in his arms. They held each other for long minutes while tension dropped awa
y.
Allarde skimmed his open hand down her spine, her waist, and her backside, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her shift. “I love your curves,” he murmured. “Like an hourglass. Petite and perfect.”
Because he wore only his drawers and a loose shirt, she was equally aware of his body. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and muscular. She pressed herself into him. Yes, tonight would be challenging—but indeed worth it.
With a half-laughing groan, he took her hand and led her to the bed, tucking her against his side so that her head rested on his shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Tory,” he whispered. “For helping me make it through the night.”
Smiling, she settled into sleep.
* * *
Tory woke early the next morning so she could return to her room before the Morgans woke. Allarde caught her hand before she left and kissed it. “Properly speaking, the gentleman should be the one leaving the warm bed for discretion’s sake. But since this is my room, I must allow you to return to yours. Fare thee well, my lady.”
She tugged her hand away and brushed her fingertips through his tousled dark hair. “Not farewell for very long. Till we break our fast, my lord.”
She returned to her room with a smile on her face.
It was the high point of a long day. By dawn, they’d had their breakfast and were heading east toward Swansea in a hired local carriage. In Swansea, Allarde hired a yellow bounder—one of the fast, yellow-bodied post chaises that changed teams of horses every few miles. Though expensive, a post chaise was the fastest way to travel long distances.
Allarde had always had as much money as he needed no matter what happened. Tory wondered if that would be true after he was disinherited. No matter. They’d manage even if his father cut him off without a shilling.