by Violet
And it had lost him his prisoner and almost his skin. His fury at himself was boundless.
He had quickly dismissed the possibility of calling to his men. They’d not hear him from the woods, and they certainly couldn’t get to him quickly enough to support him in a fight with Gabriel and his broadsword. La Violette, however, was unarmed—Cornichet had seen to that—so he had only one serious opponent to contend with.
“Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon, he calls himself,” Gabriel declared as Tamsyn reached them. “Quite the aristocratic gentleman.” He picked his teeth with a fingernail, his mild eyes regarding the colonel with the same dispassionate curiosity. “It seems you owe him a favor, little girl, but I daresay you consider it paid.”
Tamsyn flushed at this barbed comment and said swiftly, “Not in the way you mean, Gabriel. We’ll leave what happened back there out of any negotiations.”
“Negotiations?” Julian’s eyebrows quirked. “Now, what could that mean, Violette? But, forgive me, I assume you have some other name. Since we’re performing formal introduction …” He offered a mock bow and the tension in the air between them crackled. His body still retained the memory of hers as his brain fought to banish all such memories, and he knew it had to be the same for the girl, for they’d taken that mad flight together.
“I’m called Tamsyn,” she replied. “If it matters to you.” She shrugged, but both the gesture and the carelessness of her tone lacked conviction.
The name was as much of a puzzle as its owner. “Oh, it matters,” he assured her, adjusting his hastily tied stock, his fingers now moving in leisurely fashion through the linen folds. “Tamsyn. That’s a Cornish name.”
“It was my mother’s choice. How do you know it’s Cornish?”
“I’m a Cornishman myself,” he responded. He was surprised at the sudden flash in her eyes, almost as if someone had lit a candle there.
“Are you?” she said casually. “I believe my mother’s family were Cornish aristocrats too.”
The colonel’s rather heavy eyelids drooped. His eyes were hooded, his voice a casual drawl. “Forgive me, but what was a Cornish aristocrat doing in a Spanish bandit’s bed?”
Gabriel moved, the mighty sword lifting. “Watch your tongue, Englishman,” he said softly. “You insult my lady at your peril.”
Julian raised a hand in placation. He didn’t know whether the man was referring to La Violette, who was certainly no lady by any of the standards he understood, or to her mother, but in the face of the broadsword and the fierceness in the giant’s eyes, instant retreat struck him as the only option. “Forgive me. I meant no insult to a lady.” He laid a slight inflection on the last word. “But surely it’s an understandable question.”
“Perhaps, but it’s hardly your business, sir,” Tamsyn said coldly. “It’s no business of any soldier.” The bleakness of her expression startled him. The dark-violet eyes were looking through him, and there were ghosts in their depths.
But of course, La Violette had taken over her father’s band at his death. Julian had heard some story of a raid on El Baron’s mountain village by one of the rogue groups of deserters, composed of disaffected soldiers from the English and French armies, who rampaged through the Peninsula, looting, raping, murdering without qualm.
Gabriel had moved ominously closer, and he judged it politic to change the subject. “You mentioned negotiation, Violette.” It seemed a more appropriate name in present circumstances. His eyebrow lifted again in question.
“There’ll be no negotiating with a damned soldier,” Gabriel said harshly. “Come, little girl. Since you owe the man your life, we’ll grant him his. But let’s be out of here, now.”
“No, Gabriel, wait.” Tamsyn put her hand on his arm. “We owe Cornichet,” she said slowly. There was a gleam in her eye now, a slight twist to her lips. The confusion had dissipated, and her feet were back on solid ground. Cornichet had killed her men, quite apart from his treatment of her, and he should pay for that. She couldn’t expect the English colonel and his men to engage in unprovoked battle with the Frenchmen—the rules of war forbade such a personal encounter. But they could help her to have a little vengeful fun with Cornichet.
“The English milord wishes me to talk a little with his commander. I might be willing to hear what Wellington has to say, without agreeing to anything in advance, of course. But I’d wish for something in exchange.”
Gabriel was silent, and Julian recognized now that the man’s role was not that of decision maker. St. Simon might have to watch his neck with the bodyguard, but matters of leadership were the province of La Violette.
“In exchange for what, exactly?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
She shrugged. “Why, in exchange for my company to Elvas, of course. I make no promises about what I might be willing to discuss with Wellington, and I’ll require your assurance—the oath of a Cornish gentleman …” Somehow she invested the words with a wealth of derision. “Your assurance that no attempt will be made to coerce me. I will come willingly and I will leave when I wish.”
Julian wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake the derision from her eyes, make her swallow the dripping contempt in her voice. What possible right or justification did she have for doubting his honor?
“And if I give those assurances,” he said frigidly, “I’m to assume you’ll accompany me of your own free will?”
Tamsyn smiled. “In exchange for a small service, sir, yes. I give you my word. My word, Lord St. Simon, is given rarely and is the more precious for that.”
He didn’t think it was his own personal honor she was impugning; he was tarred with some brush from her past. There was much here that he didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to understand this unlikely spawn of an Englishwoman and a Spanish bandit to accomplish his mission. “And the service, señorita?”
Her smile broadened and her eyes danced. “Cornichet’s epaulets, my lord.”
Gabriel’s booming laugh rang out again. “Lassie, ye’ve more tricks in you than all the monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar.”
Tamsyn chuckled, but her eyes remained on the colonel. “Well, sir? You have twenty men. Gabriel and I will join you. Between us we should be able to dock the French colonel of his insignia.”
Julian was astounded. “Good God, girl, this is a war, not some bloody game.” Her eyes were sparkling, her mouth curved in a wicked grin, but the mischief was belied by the determined set of her chin and a steely glimmer behind the sparkle.
“I’m aware of that, Colonel,” she said. The laughter left her face, and suddenly he was chilled by the grimness of her expression, the cold flatness of her voice. “And Cornichet won’t consider it a game, either, when he’s obliged to show himself to his men in the disgraced uniform of a cashiered officer.”
It was certainly a neat revenge. Such mortification would be a bitter pill for the arrogant, brutal Cornichet to swallow. But how could he justify lending his men for such a trivial purpose?
Julian stared out at the river, his mind working furiously. He’d promised Wellington he’d bring La Violette in five days to Elvas to have her petals plucked. He could do it comfortably if they left now. His twenty men were needed at the siege of Badajos. To go off on some devil-may-care avenging jaunt to humiliate Cornichet was a waste of time and manpower. But if he didn’t agree, then La Violette would be lost to him, and for the first time in his career he’d have to return to headquarters to report failure.
His pride wouldn’t permit such a thing. It was as simple as that. The girl held all the cards, therefore he had no choice but to play the hand she dealt him. And if he allowed himself to admit it, the thought of outwitting the barbaric Cornichet again and serving him such a trick held its appeal, even if it was an appeal more suited to the youth and boyish amusements of a junior lieutenant than of a full colonel, who was also one of Wellington’s intimates. But it was well-known that Julian St. Simon had a devious mind and preferred the trickery and cunning of
undercover warfare to the brute force of the battlefield.
Cornichet and his men were presumably still in some disarray outside Olivenza half a day’s ride away, repairing the damage to their smoldering outpost. If they could get the business over with swiftly, with some hard riding they could still be back at Elvas within the five days he’d set himself.
His mind raced on, examining and discarding possibilities. Somehow they’d have to extract Cornichet from his men.
“Very well,” he said with a shrug of resignation. “It’s against my better judgment, but you hold the cards. But if you join with us, Violette, then you do so under my command. Is that agreed?”
Tamsyn shook her head. “No, milord colonel. Gabriel and I operate as free agents, as do all partisan bands when they work with your army. But we’ll not be at cross purposes, I assure you.”
She spoke the truth. The guerrilla bands lent their services to Wellington’s army when they chose, but they operated under their own command. This band consisted only of a diminutive girl and her giant bodyguard, but La Violette obviously didn’t consider that a factor.
“I’m thinking that we should surprise him at night,” Tamsyn continued, not even pausing to consider that the English colonel would object to her condition. “He usually retires at around midnight, and he’s generally foxed, but he always goes around the pickets. We can ambush him. Then … swish, swish!” She chuckled, drawing her hand through the air in two slashing motions. “It’s a small enough revenge for what he did to me, let alone what he intended to do. But I’m not overly vindictive,” she added with a cheerful grin.
“Is that so,” St. Simon muttered. “You could have fooled me. I’d have thought losing his captive and having his camp burned around his ears would have been enough for most people.”
“But that was not my revenge,” Tamsyn pointed out, sounding surprised that he couldn’t see the difference. “Taking me for yourself was your mission. It had nothing to do with making Cornichet pay for what he’d done to me and my men. Not to mention Gabriel.”
“Och, don’t count me in this,” Gabriel said comfortably. “I had my revenge, little girl. I broke a few heads on my way out of there. They’ll not forget Gabriel McFee in a hurry.”
“But there’s Gilles and Pedro and Joseph and Stefan …”
“Aye, I’ve not forgotten.” The giant held up his hand to halt the list of their fallen comrades. “I’m with ye, lassie.”
“Well, if that’s settled, perhaps we could get on with it,” Julian said impatiently, glancing up at the sun that was now well risen. “The problem is mounting you. You’ll have to ride with me, Violette. But we don’t have a mount among us that could take the weight of your man in addition to one of mine.”
“Dinna fash yourself wi’ that,” Gabriel said with an easy smile. “I’ve my own mount, and the lassie’s is tethered over yonder.” He gestured to the high ground.
“You have Cesar?” Tamsyn exclaimed. “You brought him out of there?”
“Sure, I did, little girl. I’d not leave him behind. Shame on you for thinking such a thing.”
Tamsyn reached up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I don’t know how you did it, but you’re a miracle worker, Gabriel. Let’s go and fetch them.” She turned to the colonel. “We’ll meet you in your bivouac.”
St. Simon hesitated, reluctant to let her go off with her giant bodyguard, yet unsure what he could do to prevent it.
“I gave you my word,” she said, her chin tilting, her eyes flashing. “Do you doubt me, milord colonel?”
He remembered the sardonic challenge she’d thrown at him the previous night about whether he could trust the parole of a brigand. She’d offered no assurances then, and he’d chosen not to trust her. Why he should now trust the honor of a self-confessed bandit, thief, and mercenary he didn’t know.
He shrugged again. “It makes little difference whether I do or not.” Turning on his heel, he strode off to the small wood and the camp.
“I hope ye know what y’are doing, lassie,” Gabriel observed as they walked rapidly along the bank. “El Baron would have had no truck wi’ soldiers. Going off to Wellington’s headquarters like this. It’s not right.” He shook his head, his queue swinging against his shoulders.
“I haven’t said I’ll tell them what they want to know,” she pointed out.
“And what makes ye think they can be trusted not to squeeze it out of ye?”
“Oh, I believe milord colonel can be trusted to keep his word,” she said airily, then broke into a run. “Oh, there’s Cesar. And you have my rifle, and my knife. However did you get them back?”
Gabriel snorted. “Piece o’ cake, lassie. They were a dozy lot, and once I’d broken a few bones, they weren’t goin’ to stand in my way.” He tossed her onto the back of the milk-white Arabian steed before mounting his own charger, an ugly brute whose massive shoulders and powerful hocks looked well up to the weight of his huge rider.
“Besides, I have a plan,” Tamsyn went on as if there’d been no interruption. She settled into the saddle and pulled the stallion’s ears affectionately. “I think this milord colonel might prove useful, if I can buy his services.”
“Useful to do what?” Gabriel’s tone was wary. He knew from experience that her plans were rarely simple. “Buy them with what?”
Tamsyn smiled and said mysteriously, “All in good time, Gabriel.”
Unreassured, but resigned, he held his peace, and they cantered back along the river, turning into the trees.
The men of the Sixth were packed up and ready to leave, standing beside their horses as the fires were put out. Julian whistled at the sight of La Violette’s magnificent mount, whose Mameluke training was as obvious as the Arabian blood.
“I should imagine you had a fight to wrest that beast from Cornichet,” he observed to Gabriel as they rode up.
“Ye could say that,” Gabriel said, shrugging off his fight with six brawny French infantrymen. “But I had a cudgel and my broadsword. And thanks to yourself, there was enough smoke around to create some difficulties for them.”
Julian ran his hand along the Arab’s creamy neck, inspecting him with a cavalry officer’s expertise.
“Cesar was a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday,” Tamsyn volunteered, pleased at the colonel’s knowledgeable admiration for her pride and joy.
“A supreme animal,” Julian said with an ironic smile. He saw that she had a knife in the sheath at her saddle and a long rifle attached to the pommel, a bandolier slung across her chest. He’d seen women armed in this way many times among the partisan bands, but the contrast of the weapons with La Violette’s diminutive fairness was startling. And yet it was obvious from her easy posture that she was perfectly at home bristling with arms in her high saddle of magnificently tooled leather.
“Plunder from some Spanish grandee’s stud, no doubt,” he added, his ironic smile unwavering.
“A Turk, as it happens,” she retorted. “He was crossing the Sierra Nevada with a complete stud and a mule train laden with gold and emeralds. My father relieved him of everything, I believe.”
“Och, little girl, such lies!” Gabriel exclaimed. “El Baron had his own stud, Englishman. It was renowned throughout Spain and Portugal, and men came from all over to buy a colt, but the baron would sell only to those he chose. I’ve seen grown men weeping and carpeting the ground with gold for one of his horses, but the baron wouldn’t budge if he took agin a man.”
“Such a vivid imagination you have, señorita,” St. Simon murmured, glancing at Tamsyn, who was looking annoyed at Gabriel’s intervention.
“Not as vivid as yours, Colonel,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “I suggest you devote your imagination to a plan for exercising your vengeance on Cornichet. Let’s get going. I’ve no desire to waste any more time than necessary on this ridiculous expedition.”
He swung onto his mount and called, “Sergeant, give the order to move out.”
F
lushed with anger, Tamsyn drew aside with Gabriel as the cavalcade trotted out of the clearing. For two pins she would have turned Cesar and galloped in the opposite direction, and there wasn’t a cavalry officer under the sun who could have caught her. But her old life was over now, brought to an end first by the massacre in Puebla de St. Pedro, and then by Cornichet’s ambush. Now she must plan a future, and the English colonel had somehow woven himself into that future. She needed his help in this little matter of Cornichet, but the large picture was beginning to take shape in her mind, and Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon rode through that canvas. A Cornishman who seemed to be in the right place at the right time—although whether he would put it that way himself was open to question. A question to be answered when they reached Elvas, once Cornichet had paid his dues.
Chapter Four
SIX HOURS BROUGHT THEM TO THE OUTSKIRTS OF Olivenza. Tamsyn and the colonel had exchanged no words, and she’d ridden with Gabriel in the manner of the partisans, keeping apart from the English soldiers, riding in the hills alongside the road. Gabriel, like the phlegmatic magician he was, had produced bread, cheese, dried dates, and a wineskin of rioja from his saddlebags, and they’d eaten in the saddle as they were accustomed to doing.
Julian had kept an eye on them through his glass as they rode in the distance, but as they reached the town, the two of them rode down to the cavalcade of soldiers.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Colonel, but this seems like a rum deal to me,” the sergeant muttered. “I wouldn’t want to meet that bleedin’ great bloke in a dark alley.”
“No,” Julian agreed, feeling that he owed the sergeant some explanation. “But they say La Violette always has her price, and if this little junket is the cost of bringing her to headquarters, then we must pay it.”