by Sherry Gloag
“Juan and I are taking their places. It is agreed that a party of two men and two women will raise less interest than three men with one woman.”
It seemed Phillipe had already explained Consuela’s presence.
“Are you sure?” Vidal asked the other man.
“I’m sure,” Juan confirmed before his gaze shifted to Consuela. “Come,” he said. “It is time we left.”
Vidal, she noticed with a shrug, didn’t bother to hide his discontent with this new arrangement.
It took all her resolve not to look back. Not to let her emotions run free and overwhelm her. In no way did she want to put her friends at risk by remaining with them, but leaving them behind while she, hopefully, made a break for freedom, lay heavy on her heart. She focussed on the distant view ahead. How far would Juan and Consuela travel with them before either handing them over to other guerrillas or permitting them to fend for themselves? Perhaps, she thought, she should ask herself how long Vidal would allow someone else to determine his future, and by association, hers too? The man she remembered would never allow others to control his own actions. Would he quietly follow orders, even here in an unknown environment and unfamiliar conditions?
Honor doubted it.
Waves of anger radiated off him, from the hard line of his jaw to the ram-rod rigidity of his spine. In turn it sparked an answering resentment in her. Had she asked him to come to Spain and insult her friends?
She had not.
Had she asked him to come here and escort her home?
Why would she?
Trekking across the Pyrenees at the onset of winter was not her idea of a picnic. The chance of surviving such a trip, balanced against her remaining in Spain, even if she moved away from Phillipe’s village, was about the same according to Phillipe. The least Vidal could do was try for civility. Allowing anger to rule, Honor turned her shoulder and settled in for an anticipated two hour ride of silence.
The climb away from the hut exposed them to the cooling evening air, and the sparkling snow-capped mountains ahead took on a new meaning. She’d expected they’d turn north, but still they travelled west, apparently paralleling the route taken when they’d fled from Salamanca.
A chill, unconnected with the wind, chased through her system. Memories replaced the view in front of her.
Devlin’s last kiss, the feel of his arms around her, his whispered "Always", her unexplained foreboding when he’d walked away and, unusually, not turned to blow her a kiss. Had he known? Or had his soldier’s intuition told him, that day would be different?
If she hadn’t followed his progress to the edge of the camp she wouldn’t have seen what happened, and would always have wondered. Instead the images were burned in her memory forever.
“I promised him,” Phillipe had told her later after her grief released her enough to listen. “All the while he was out scouting, and during the marches I have been two steps behind you, just as your husband commanded. And as he requested, it is my job to keep you safe in the face of disaster.” He’d knelt down in front of her, taken her cold hands in his. “I made a promise,” he said, “and I always keep my promises.”
Too numb to comprehend his words, she’d let him take over, this friend of Devlin’s. At some level she’d accepted they were leaving the dubious military security to travel across country alone.
The privileges of an officer’s wife meant she’d stayed within the inner circle of the camp, while the followers of the drum trailed at the rear with the supply carts and munitions wagons. And with her husband’s death, the sanctuary of her life in the army ended.
She still didn’t know how long they’d travelled to reach the rag-tag settlement; the days blended into each other, one after the other. Not until Sancia, Phillipe’s barrel of a wife, had cradled her in her arms while she wept had her sense of "now" returned.
Chapter Five
“Are you well?”
Immersed in her memories, it took Honor a few moments to absorb Vidal’s question.
“What?” She shook her head in an effort to dislodge painful images. “Of course,” she answered, knowing it was no answer at all. Her life had not been right since Devlin’s capture. And now, at some inner level, she understood when she left Spain, her departure would cut her last tenuous link with him.
She studied the riders ahead of her. Juan and Consuela rode on in front, side by side, their heads angled towards each other in earnest conversation. Anyone coming upon them would take them for a couple, or a pair of lovers. Whether that was good or bad, she didn’t dare contemplate, but the possibility that in their preoccupation with each other, Juan would fail to notice the risk to their party, concerned her. Guilt ripped through her. They’d become embroiled in her need to escape and displayed a total lack of concern she found hard to understand. The Spanish guerilleros might be less of a threat to them than the partisans of Joseph Bonaparte’s army, but how could one tell them apart in time to stay alive?
“I still don’t understand why Phillipe insisted we head back towards Salamanca. Surely it would be better to go north east?”
Vidal’s query penetrated her thoughts and she straightened her spine, not prepared to allow her nightmares to break her. Salamanca and the memories the name evoked, she vowed, would not achieve what grief had failed to do.
“He thinks it is the one route the French will ignore in their search for me.”
Salamanca. Like a drum beat of doom the word throbbed inside her skull.
The way Vidal mentioned the name revealed his grief was as sharp as her own. He may not have been there, but he understood. And why not? He had known Devlin far longer than her. Of course his anguish would cut as deep.
“Thank you for your help.” She schooled herself to soften the stiffness in her tone. Gratitude that he, and not some stranger, rode beside her on this dangerous mission to return home, thawed some of the chill that had her in its thrall.
“I will not say ‘you’re welcome’, for I know you wouldn’t believe me. Rather, let me say, there is no one else who can do a better job of escorting you home than myself.”
Not arrogance, Honor accepted, but truth. Vidal would let no other man attempt to bring his friend’s widow home. A last reckoning for the dead, she acknowledged. So why did she feel…
Whatever the emotions he stirred in her, she refused to identify them. Her constant ambivalence between her emotions for Devlin and Vidal were in the past. With Devlin gone— Her throat hitched at the prospect of facing her future alone. Well, once they reached England.
Had Devlin’s family been notified? She supposed so, and wondered how Wellington had explained her disappearance. Did he have the information about her husband’s death? The snort of derision escaped before she could prevent it. Of course he would know. But how had Phillipe found out about the outcome of Devlin’s capture? The question began to niggle at her resolve to remain strong.
Vidal’s mule closed the gap between them. “I believe I may have under-estimated your resilience, but this journey will not be easy.”
“I’m not sure whether you have just insulted or complimented me.” When it came, her laugh was free and light, and shocked her to her soul. She tried to remember the last time she’d laughed so freely.
“But assuredly, it is a compliment.” Laugh-lines crinkled round his eyes. “Dev would never have married a weak, simpering miss, but I own, I was concerned you may not appreciate the rigors of the journey ahead of us.” All traces of humour vanished from his face as he reined in his mount and caught her mule’s bridle. “But you do. Understand, I mean. You’ve travelled this route before.”
Unable to get the affirmative past her lips, Honor nodded.
“I wish it could be different.”
As she watched the setting sun turn the snow-capped mountains to a wild, bright rose, she did too. “Thank you,” she whispered while the rising wind fought to steal her words away. “I was there, and saw it happen.” She was unable to face Vidal, yet
his shocked gasp still reached her.
“My dear, no one told me. Perhaps we should divert…”
“No!”
“I refuse to cause additional, unnecessary danger to them.” She pointed to Juan and Consuela.” If they suffered because I refused to face some unpleasant memories I’d never forgive myself.”
* * * *
Three days later Vidal was still grappling with his erroneous assumption that Devlin’s wife — widow, he corrected himself — would lack the strength to cope. To lose her husband as she had was surely bad enough; did she know he’d been betrayed? She must, if, as she said, she saw it happen. And still she rode on, her back straight, her face, if not tranquil, composed in a fierce tenacity to confront the rigors ahead.
With a gentle determination she’d refused his offer of assistance when they bivouacked the first night, and together with Consuela, set about creating a meagre meal from some dried meat, and local herbs she acquired from he knew not where.
Accustomed to waking at the crack of dawn, he found her up before him and returning from a trip to the edge of the camp before he’d managed to roll up his bed-blanket. She’d offered them all tapas Dev had long ago explained the name for thin chorizo and salami slices with bread — before setting out once more.
As morning slipped into afternoon, clouds on the horizon multiplied and gathered momentum. Fluffy white turned to heavy dark grey, and rain, slow to begin with, increased to torrential. Rain water soon filled the deep furrows cut into the road by gun carriers, making it hard for man and beast to find safe footing.
“It’s too dangerous to continue along this way,” Juan shouted above a sudden crack of thunder. “This weather is not good. We must take the next turning off and head away from here.” With a Gaelic sweep of his hand, he encompassed the deepening storm clouds and entrance to the narrow, winding path to their right. “We must go this way.”
They struck out across fields of torched wheat, fast becoming a quagmire of soot-laden water, and Vidal wondered how much safer their new route was than the road they’d just left. It seemed Juan never intended to follow the path he’d indicated.
According to Phillipe, Marmont’s troops fled after the battle at Salamanca, but now with Wellington’s strategic retreat from Madrid, the Spanish and French were anxious to redeem themselves and push the English back. Old Nosey would fall back just far enough from the city to wait out the coming winter, before launching another all-out attack on the city in the spring. One of his sources had informed Vidal that Wellington thought the Spaniards wouldn’t want to instigate another conflict this late in the year, but the insurgents, partisans and rogue French patrols, split away from their divisions, if given a chance, would lay waste to anything and anyone who got in their way.
The rain lashed down upon them with unforgiving glee and the expanse of fields surrounding them offered little evidence of Juan’s promised shelter until the Spaniard halted beside a scrawny bunch of trees clinging to an outcrop of rocks at the far side of the fifth field they crossed. Sparse though it seemed to Vidal, he welcomed the cover as an alternative to riding across open flat-land. Stripped of all but the hardiest leaves, the trees prevented the wind and rain from pounding them to pulp.
And still Honor remained calm. More and more he uncovered the depths Devlin had seen in her. No wonder Dev had rushed her to the altar. It was his own fault he’d taken too long to acknowledge and act upon his feelings for her, and by the time he did, it was too late. She was betrothed to his best friend.
He hadn’t expected his emotions to flair back to life upon seeing her again, and wondered whether subconsciously she was the reason he’d never settled down with a convenient bride who’d give him with an heir and spare.
“Do you think if we persuaded the mules to lie down they would provide enough shelter for me to start a small fire? If so, I could boil some water for a hot drink.”
Bowls had been set out to capture the rain water and would be used to fill their containers for the rest of the day’s ride, if it ever dried out enough for them to move on.
“Soldiers approaching.” Juan’s urgent hiss catapulted him into dowsing the fire seconds before the small, bedraggled troop of men came into view.
“Get behind the rocks and stay there until I say otherwise. These men may decide, like us, to try and shelter here from the weather.”
Vidal shoved Honor against the rocky outcrop.
* * * *
A rapid burst of Spanish disrupted the sound of rain pounding the rock. Later, Vidal could never explain how the men didn’t recognise the outline of the mules and come over to investigate when they stopped not far from their refuge.
Vidal waited for his heartbeat to slow down. The instinctive urge to protect a woman from danger, and to find himself in the middle of such circumstances, were so different from an all-male combat. And he could not allow his feelings for Honor Beaumont to impact the job he’d been sent to do; it would spell disaster for them all if he failed to concentrate on the present situation.
He tried peering through the curtain of rain and discovered their path and the distant mountains had disappeared from view. The muddy torrent of water covering the track promised to make any further progress treacherous. Should they stop where they were, or go on?
“We cannot stay here.” Juan answered his silent question. “The next travellers coming this way may not want to carry on down to the village, in this rain.”
“Won’t we have the same problem?” He pointed to the increased flow of water running over the tops of his boots.
“It will take longer which means we may not reach our destination tonight, but we must leave.”
Without waiting to see it Vidal followed him, Juan headed for Consuela. Urged on by Juan, Vidal helped Honor onto her mule and mounted his own. Loath as he was to leave, he understood the reasons for diverting from their original plans. A glance in Honor’s direction revealed her sodden clothes plastered to her. The rain had soaked through her worn leather jacket, and still she rode behind her companions in stoic silence. Her hair had long since slipped loose from its pins and fell in bedraggled rat’s tails down her back, and tears in the heavy cotton britches she wore exposed the scratches on her legs, while the rest of the material stuck to her like a second skin. And her ankles…
His body heated up in spite of the chill storm-blown rain. Her shoes looked two sizes too big for her dainty feet, and he wondered, concern chilling his unwanted spurt of desire, what condition were they in? Were the soles as decrepit as the uppers?
Why had he assumed she’d come through the experiences as an army wife and still look and act like a debutant in the middle of her first London Season? He watched Consuela fall back and ride at her side. Honor leaned forward to say something and the sound of the women’s laughter mingled with the pounding rain.
He wanted to make Honor laugh. He wanted to run his hands…
Whatever he wanted didn’t matter; he’d do better to concentrate on getting her back to England without mishap. He urged his mount forward to join Honor and her companion.
“How much daylight do we have left?”
“Less than we hoped, due to this weather. I was just telling Mrs. Beaumont Juan says we may have to stop before we reach our intended destination.”
“I think we should continue,” Honor contradicted. “I appreciate it won’t be easy and we shall have to dismount and walk to save the animals from possible injury.”
“It is too far,” Juan stated as he joined them. “Another hour’s walk, at least.”
“Is there shelter between here and your destination?”
Juan shook his head.
“Is it impossible to travel in this weather?”
Once again he shook his head.
“Then I think we should go on.” Vidal sided with Honor.
With a muttered imprecation, Juan pressed his knees into the mule’s flanks and urged it forward.
“Tell me, why you have opted to go
on?” he asked her.
“Because I don’t fancy sleeping in these wet clothes if I can possibly avoid it. I’ve done it before and it is horrible to have to start a new day in sodden clothes you’ve slept in all night.” She looked across at him and offered him a rueful smile. “So you see mine is a purely selfish reason for not stopping before we reach the next village.”
* * * *
Beginning second week of September
Thanks to the next two days of sunshine that dried their clothes and baked the ground hard again, their progress picked up speed and they left the open landscape behind them. The woodland they’d just travelled through had offered a respite from the heat. Ahead of them a bank of hills presented the first real challenge, if not obstacle to their journey, even though for some unexplained reason, Vidal noticed Honor’s unease grew during their time in the woods.
“It is a pity, is it not, that we have no opportunity to enjoy the ride.”
Something in her voice alerted Vidal. “That is not what is concerning you though, is it?” He caught hold of her reins and brought her animal to a halt. “Do you trust me enough to share what is bothering you?”
“It’s hard to put into words for I keep persuading myself I am being stupid. That I am imagining things.”
“What sort of things?”
Looking back at the woods they’d left behind, Honor tried to marshal her thoughts. Was it her imagination, or were they being followed? She’d seen and heard nothing, and yet, somewhere deep inside her, a place that Dev told her to listen to churned with unease.
“What do you know about Juan?” she asked, deciding to start with the one constant that didn’t add up.
“Juan?” Vidal repeated, and focussed on their self-elected Spanish guide. “Not much. The guerilleros don’t share information with each other, let alone with outsiders. If they did, they’d endanger every link in their local chain of resistance. Why do you ask?”