Marrying the Royal Marine

by Carla Kelly

  In late afternoon, the guerillero leader the Lieutenant called Espoz y Mina stopped the column and rode with his English-speaking Subaltern along the column, falling in beside the Lieutenant. Through interpreters, he told them his army was taking the road east to Burgos.

  ‘El jefe wants you and your wife to continue with a smaller column to the Bay of Biscay,’ the interpreter said.

  ‘I won’t argue,’ Hugh told him. ‘After a month in the saddle, this Marine would like to clap his eyes on a fleet.’

  ‘You will, then,’ the interpreter said. ‘Vayan con Dios. I will leave you with another interpreter.’ He nodded to the Lieutenant on foot, who gave them a cheery wave and peeled off with the long column. The smaller unit watched until Espoz y Mina’s army turned on to what looked like no more than a cow trail, but pointed east to Burgos. The new interpreter, a long-faced Basque named Raul Etchemindy, rode beside them.

  The smaller column continued north and turned slightly west, as it sought the relative safety of another mountain pass. ‘This area is still patrolled by the crapaud,’ Etchemindy said. ‘That will change, God willing, if your Wellington invests Burgos.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘If not, then we fight another year.’

  The rains came again as the tired horses plodded into a village Hugh never would have seen from the plains below. Small and self-contained, he wondered if it had been guarding the pass since the earliest days of Roman conquest.

  Brandon had said next to nothing through the long afternoon, and he was relieved to hand her off carefully when he halted his horse in the village square. His buttocks on fire, he dismounted with a groan and barely had time to blink before the horse was whisked away down a side street. He looked around. All the horses were gone now, hidden from French eyes.

  He put his arm around Brandon, who leaned against him. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said.

  Then it was their turn to be taken in hand by Etchemindy and whisked away into a small, fortress-like house. Chattering in an uninflected language he did not understand, two women pried Brandon from his side and led her away. He stood there a moment, indecisive and uneasy to have her gone, then turned to Etchemindy.

  ‘You are safe here,’ his Basque said in good, workaday English. ‘In the past four years, we have had English visitors. Sometimes they even bring us weapons, but never enough.’

  ‘Perhaps we can change that,’ Hugh said, interested.

  ‘Possibly. We are riding to Santander as soon as your wife is able, señor. The fleet has brought more weapons for the Spanish army, but we in the hills need an advocate.’

  ‘We can leave tomorrow, and I can help you,’ Hugh told him. ‘Admiral Sir Home Popham is my friend.’

  Etchemindy clapped Hugh’s arm as his solemn expression gave way to a smile. ‘It is a doubly good thing, then, that we did not shoot you on sight, and wonder later who the man in the scarlet coat was!’

  Etchemindy led him into a heavy-beamed room dark with the wood smoke of centuries, sat him down, and offered him a bowl of soup. Hugh felt his hunger pangs increase at the sight of meat floating in the thick broth. His host handed him a hunk of dark bread, which made a heavenly sop.

  He ate too fast, knowing he would suffer for it by morning. He was reaching for more bread when he noticed one of the women hovering in the doorway, beckoning to him. Brandon, he thought, alarmed, and rose at once.

  The woman whispered to Etchemindy, who turned to him. ‘Señor, follow my wife.’

  Outside a closed door, the woman spoke at length to her husband, who gestured Hugh closer. ‘Your little lady is just sitting in the tub and keeps asking for you.’

  Hugh let out the breath he had been holding, relieved. ‘It is this way, Señor Etchemindy. We have not been separated for some weeks now, and I confess I am feeling lost without her, too. With all due respect and thanks to your wife, may I go in and take care of things?’

  Etchemindy nodded. ‘Goodnight. If we are not being presumptuous, we can find some fresh clothing in the village.’

  ‘Not presumptuous at all,’ Hugh said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  The wife whispered again to her husband, who laughed. ‘She says she is going to burn your clothing, no matter what you decide.’

  ‘Wise of her!’

  When the Etchemindys had returned to their great room, Hugh knocked softly and lifted the latch. What he saw touched his heart. Just as Señora Etchemindy had said, Brandon sat in a tin tub, head down to one side, shoulders slumped. Her hair was tumbled around her shoulders, but it was dry. She just sat there, as though too stunned by the day’s events to move.

  He just looked at her, seeing again how young she was, how utterly spent. She was a woman with the courage of a lion, who would have killed for him, but there she sat. Do I sympathise? he asked himself. Do I tease her? Do I just tell her I love her?

  ‘Brandon.’

  She gasped and looked around, and the relief in her eyes scored him right to the bone. He felt his own heart lift, and he knew he had been hungrier for the sight of her than that whole bowl of stew, as good as it had tasted. A room without Polly Brandon in it was a room not worth inhabiting. It was a simple truth, but deeper than a well.

  He was at her side then, squatting by the tub, his arms around her awkwardly. She didn’t try to kiss him or say anything, but clung to him, her arms strong around his neck. She was a woman who would never fail him or tease him or play a missish card. She had a heart of oak, first requirement of a Royal Marine.

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Brandon, I suppose you will have a thousand objections and try to stop me from sacrificing myself, but here it is. Brace yourself. I love you.’ It sounded so good to his ears he said it again. ‘I love you.’

  Her voice was small. ‘Enough to marry me?’

  ‘More than enough. Laura Brittle knew. I knew it, even though I didn’t dare say anything. And then I tried to change my mind.’ He rested his cheek against hers. ‘Are you certain you want to splice yourself to a chowderhead?’

  ‘When I saw that Dragoon point his sidearm at you…’ she began. She sobbed and tightened her grip.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ he asked, cradling her in his arms and soaking his sleeves.

  She nodded.

  I daren’t be a watering pot, too, he thought, else she will change her mind. He tickled her knee instead, content to be easy with the lovely body he already knew. ‘You know, Brandon, we will return to Plymouth and I will dutifully take my place at the conference table, probably never to roam the world again,’ he said into her ear. ‘No more adventuring in foreign waters. I shall leave that to the Lieutenants and Captains in my division. You’ll be stuck looking at my sorry visage over breakfast and dinner tables. I can’t live without the sight of you.’

  ‘I feel the same way,’ she whispered. ‘As for roaming the world again, you will, but you will be duty-bound to write me long letters!’

  She was patient with him as he poured water over her head and worked soap through her tangled hair, digging with his fingernails until she sighed with pleasure. He washed her hair twice more, then devoted his attention to the rest of her.

  It was easy to linger over her breasts, which had lost some of their heft, but none of their attraction. He shook his head at the sight of her ribs. Where had his plump Brandon gone? A few good meals would change that. He had no doubt that his cook in Plymouth would not rest until the Colonel’s lady was better fleshed.

  She stood when he asked, and let him leisurely lather her hips and thighs and the space between. In fact, she began to breathe hard and clutch at his hair, as he bent to the task. She gasped, pressing his hand into her soft folds, making sure he didn’t miss a thing. His thoroughness was gentle. She clutched him convulsively, then kissed the top of his head after she found release.

  He rinsed her off as she laughed softly, then wrapped a towel around her and moved her closer to the fireplace. As he dried her, he couldn’t help but think how it had all started on board the Perseverance, an
d her so seasick. He had cared for her then and he cared for her now.

  ‘Thank you for saving my life,’ he said into her bare shoulder, as she finished drying herself. ‘What an inadequate statement, Polly!’

  ‘I would do it again,’ she said, turning around.

  He picked her up and deposited her in the bed. ‘You’re my hero, Brandon.’

  She blushed becomingly, and held out her hand to him. ‘I’d rather just be your wife, and sing lullabies to our children. You can have the adventuring, Hugh. I don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s fair enough.’ He sat beside her on the bed. ‘I don’t mean to be squeamish, but your bathwater is daunting. Perhaps Señora Etchemindy can get her little Etchemindys—I saw them peeking around the stairwell—to empty this, move it into the kitchen, and fetch some clean water.’

  He looked at her. She was asleep, her hand limp on her bare breast. He laughed softly to himself and covered her with the blanket.

  Hugh took his time bathing in the kitchen, once the tub had been emptied and moved from the bedroom. Señora Etchemindy had retired for the night, so Hugh entertained his host with the whole story, from his impulsive leap into the barco at Vila Gaia to the ambush on the mountain pass. Etchemindy nodded and smoked his pipe.

  ‘That nun at São Jobim was no nun,’ Etchemindy said.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ Hugh said, soaping up, ‘but she had been violated like so many of Portugal’s fair women.’ He looked at Etchemindy, soap in hand. ‘Some women withdrew, some descended into madness, some coped, and some, like Sister Maria, turned it into a great thirst for revenge.’

  ‘No different than men,’ Etchemindy commented. ‘Sister Maria Madelena passed on valuable information to your navy. She paid a high price.’

  Hugh had nothing more than a towel to wrap around his middle when he padded back down the hall, because Señora Etchemindy had taken out everything except his gorget to the burn pit. Her husband assured him that the village wasn’t so destitute that it couldn’t come up with adequate fabric to hang on his frame, come morning.

  The fire had worked its way down to hot coals and a red glow. He breathed in the fragrance of pine oil and pronounced it better than anything he had smelled in weeks. Autumn was well advanced now and the tang of wood smoke reminded him pleasantly of home.

  Brandon was sitting up in bed.

  ‘You were supposed to be asleep,’ he told her as he discarded his towel and climbed in beside her.

  Polly said nothing, but wrapped her arms and legs around him, working her way into his core. She kissed him with a ferocity that stunned him at first, then built a bonfire in his own body. All he could do was show her how much he loved her by easing himself as deep inside her as he could, all the while kissing her open mouth. They were bound up tight in each other arms.

  When she cried out, he felt no need to cover her mouth. The walls were thick, and he knew the Etchemindys were understanding. He could have been quieter, too, or maybe not. They had survived; this coupling was a triumphant victory over death, as they told each other of their love and celebrated their survival with their bodies.

  Their next coupling at dawn gave them both a chance to watch each other make love. He had never really noticed before that she had a light sprinkling of freckles on her breasts. Maybe, after peace came and he had some free time, he would count each one. He liked the comfortable way she rested her legs on his legs, and massaged his buttocks with her strong fingers.

  Drowsy and satisfied, they lay close together later, listening to the Etchemindys moving about in the great room. ‘We’re going to the coast,’ he told her. ‘Admiral Popham is there, and we will join the fleet. Brandon, the fleet is big enough to have a chaplain, and when I am on sea duty, my ship is also my parish. Will you marry me there without any further delay?’

  She nodded. ‘I will probably have to explain a lot to my sisters.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ He raised up on his elbow for a good look at her. ‘Brandon, do you realize that at every stage of this journey, no one ever doubted we were married?’

  She considered it. ‘Did we just always seem married?’ she asked, caressing him.

  ‘I’ve felt that way since the Perseverance,’ he confessed. ‘Don’t laugh!’

  Her hands were soft on his face. He kissed her palm. ‘Colonel, you’re a looby. You know that’s impossible.’ She rubbed her nose against his cheek. ‘Well, maybe not impossible. I wanted to think along those lines, except that Laura talked me out of it. But I’m young and foolish. How can you explain your behaviour?’

  He couldn’t think of a thing to say. He just cuddled her closer, until Señor Etchemindy knocked on the door, reminded them there was a war on, and invited them to breakfast.

  ‘There is a pile of clothing outside the door,’ Etchemindy said. ‘I think you will be suitably disguised, Colonel Junot.’

  Hugh decided he liked Polly Brandon very well in the ankle-length skirt, white blouse, and shawl of the local woman. He laced up her leather shoes and earned a flick to his head with her finger when his hands wandered farther up her legs than the stockings.

  She laughed out loud when he dressed—courtesy of the village priest—in black soutane, cape, and broad-brimmed hat. The priest had thoughtfully furnished a crucifix for his neck and a prayer book. ‘Now you must behave, Père Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junot,’ she teased.

  ‘Let us pray no one needs Last Rites,’ he retorted, and frowned at his patched sleeve. ‘I look better in scarlet.’

  ‘You are a man milliner,’ his love accused.

  ‘Guilty,’ Hugh agreed affably. ‘It used to be my little secret, but I suppose marriage lays one open to all sorts of charges. Dash it all—everyone in the Third Division knows I am a peacock!’

  Polly was generous. She kissed him and murmured something about how grateful she was that he wasn’t perpetually clad in a bloody apron like Philemon, or smelling of brine and tar like Oliver, her brothers-in-law. ‘I could probably even take you to Bath and show you off,’ she told him, tucking her arm in his as they went to the great room, ‘providing I felt like parading you about in front of Miss Pym, which I do not. I intend to admire your remarkable posture and creaseless tunic without an audience!’

  ‘I’ll even take it off for you,’ he whispered, the soul of generosity.

  He hoped she would laugh and blush, but she surprised him. Unable to keep the tears from her eyes, Polly leaned her forehead against his arm. ‘My love, I never thought we would have a chance to laugh about a future, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Brandon,’ he replied, as honest as she was. ‘We owe Sergeant Cadotte a debt we can never repay.’

  ‘We can repay some of it,’ she said. ‘Some day.’

  Breakfast was bread and blood sausage, washed down with milk. Hugh just sat and enjoyed the pleasure of watching Brandon eat until she finally had to hold up her hands in protest against one more bite.

  Not one to be sceptical of any man’s opinion, Hugh still had to ask Raul Etchemindy how an odd couple such as they were now—maiden and priest—could possibly travel north through territory still patrolled by the French.

  Raul seemed not at all perturbed. He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in his jug of milk. ‘You’re not the only visitors to our village, Colonel. I think I can guarantee you as safe a ride to Santander as you can imagine.’

  As it turned out, he did. Hugh decided never again to doubt Providence.

  ‘Wait here,’ Raul said. He hesitated at the door, listening intently, which made Brandon tuck her hand in Hugh’s and look at him with concern in her eyes. She was even tensed for flight, which told him volumes about her trust for anyone except him.

  ‘Let’s see what this new development is, my love,’ he told her calmly. ‘Raul, don’t think I have rag manners, but how are we getting to Santander?’

  ‘Would you like a carriage ride with a Frenchwoman?’

  Polly shook her head. ‘We would not,’ she declared firm
ly. ‘No French ever again. I would rather walk to Santander.’

  ‘Polly, let us reconsider your firm stance against anyone of French origin,’ he told her, putting his arm around her. He looked at their host, saw the smile in his eyes, and remembered Lisbon. ‘Señor Etchemindy, might this lady be of middling height, trim, and with red, curly hair? Young, too? Not much older than my wife?’

  Enjoying himself hugely, Raul nodded.

  Polly looked at Hugh suspiciously, but he only kissed her hand, so tight in his. ‘If this is who I think, I heard of this paragon in Lisbon,’ he told her. ‘Her name is Madame Felice Sevigny, and she is the answer to more than one of our prayers, actually.’

  ‘The very woman, señor. I believe I hear her carriage now.’

  Hugh didn’t precisely drag his love to the front door of the Etchemindy dwelling, but she did remind him of his favorite hunting dog—when a pup—who had to be coaxed towards open water. ‘Trust me, Brandon,’ he whispered. ‘Our fortunes have turned.’

  They were standing in the doorway as a mud-stained carriage came to a halt in front of the house and the door opened. Raul helped down a kindly looking female, not much taller than Polly and barely any older, whom he engaged in conversation. The result was several glances towards them standing in the doorway, then a bow, rather than a curtsey.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Polly said.

  ‘Not so odd,’ Hugh contradicted. ‘Ah, here she comes.’

  The female in question patted her handsome black hair where a portion of it peeped out from a bonnet that must have come direct from the Rue de Rivoli or a Parisian boulevard close by. She strode across the muddy space to the Etchemindy’s front door, and into the house in a businesslike manner, forcing Polly, her eyes wide now, to back up into Hugh’s arms.

  When she and Raul were inside and the door shut, she nodded to Hugh, and turned her attention to Polly. With a flourish, she lifted off her bonnet, which carried away her hair, too, and bowed again.