He stilled in the darkness.
‘Please.’
In answer he lay down beside her, and covered them both with the weight of his greatcoat. He was warm even through the blankets that separated them and she could feel the linen of his shirt soft against her cheek and smell the clean, masculine smell of him. With his strong arm draped protectively over her, holding her close, the nightmare receded and Josie knew, at last, that she was safe.
As Dammartin rode the next day his thoughts were all with Josephine Mallington. She had been seconds from being raped. In his mind’s eye he could still see the bandit lying over her, and the memory made his blood run cold so that he wanted to smash the butt of his musket into the man’s face again and again. Death had come too quickly for the bastard.
He remembered her anger, and her devastation, and the way she had clung to him in the night. I prayed that you would come, she had said. Him. Her enemy.
And he thought of Lieutenant Colonel Mallington firing the shot into his father’s body, just as he had thought of it every day for over the last eighteen months. She was the murderer’s daughter, his flesh and blood. He had every right to hate her, but it was no longer that simple. She had not known of her father’s crime, and she did not deserve what had happened to her, not in that room in Telemos, not his contempt, nor the assault by the bandits. Lamont had been right. She was a woman, a woman who had watched her father die, who was alone and afraid and the captive of an enemy army.
But there was still the matter of what Mallington had done, and Dammartin could not forgive or forget. The wound ran too deep for that. If he could have understood the reasons underlying Mallington’s crime, perhaps then there might have been some sort of end to it all, a semblance of peace. But Mallington had died taking his answers to the grave, leaving Dammartin with his anger and his bitterness… and his desire for Josephine Mallington.
As Lamont had said, it would be a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo, a long way indeed.
Josie rode silently by Molyneux’s side that day. The Lieutenant had been kind and understanding, trying to make the journey as comfortable as he could for her, but she could see that he did not know what to say to her. Even Sergeant Lamont had brought her a cup of hot coffee when they stopped to rest and eat, his gruff expression belying the small kindness. She could see the way they looked at her, with pity in their eyes, and Josie hated it. Their contempt would have been more welcome. She did not want to be vulnerable and afraid, an object of sympathy, and she resented the bandit even more that he could have made her so. And she knew what the bandit would have done had not Dammartin arrived.
Saved by the one man she had hated. It was under his command that her father and his men had been killed. He could be nothing other than her enemy. But Josie thought of the hole that his bullet had made within the bandit’s head, she thought of how he had taken her in his arms and held her. He had washed away the dirt and the stench and the blood, and stayed with her the whole night through, and lain his length beside her when she had begged him to stay. She had begged him. And that thought made Josie cringe with shame, yet last night, in the darkness the fear had been so very great that there had been no such embarrassment. Last night she had needed him, this man who hated with such passion.
Your father was a villain and a scoundrel, he had said, and she thought again of the terrible accusation he had made. Dammartin believed in it with all his heart. And she wondered why he should ever have come to think such a thing. How could he be so misled? There was only one man who could answer her questions.
Yesterday she would not have considered entering into a discussion with Dammartin over his accusation, but much had changed since then, and she knew that, for all the darkness and danger surrounding him, he would not hurt her. For all else that Dammartin was and for all else that he had done, he had saved her, and Josie would not forget that.
She rode on in silence, biding her time until evening when she would speak to the French Captain.
It had been a long day, long and cold and hard, and the dust of it still clung to Dammartin’s boots. Smoke drifted from the newly lit fires and the men busied themselves with cooking pots and rice and beans. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke and the damp air of impending night.
‘We head for Sabugal tomorrow,’ he said to Lamont. ‘The maps show that the mountains do not grow less and Foy is demanding we speed our current pace.’
‘Men will be lost if we push them too hard.’
‘More of Massena’s men are lost with every day that we delay.’ Dammartin rubbed wearily at the dark growth of stubble that peppered his jaw. ‘Our army is dying in this damned country for need of reinforcements.’
Lamont’s gaze focused over Dammartin’s right shoulder before swinging back to meet the Captain’s. ‘I think perhaps the mademoiselle wishes to speak with you. She keeps glancing over here.’
Dammartin’s expression remained unchanged. ‘I am busy. There remains much to be done this evening.’ He had no wish to speak to Mademoiselle Mallington. Matters concerning the girl were already too complicated for his liking.
Lamont sniffed and scratched at his chin. ‘After last night, I thought…’
Dammartin forced the images from his mind. ‘I would not wish what happened last night upon any woman, but she is still Mallington’s daughter, Claude. I cannot allow myself to forget that.’
Lamont said nothing for a few moments, just looked at his captain before giving a nod. ‘I will see to our evening meal.’ And he walked off.
Dammartin nodded over at Molyneux, and began to move towards his lieutenant. A woman’s step sounded behind him and there was the scent of lavender.
‘I wondered if I might speak with you, Captain Dammartin.’ There was a slightly awkward expression upon Mademoiselle Mallington’s face; she seemed almost embarrassed, and he knew that she was remembering last night, just as he was.
He opened his mouth to refuse her, noticing as he did the tendrils of fair hair that had escaped her bonnet to feather around her face and the shadow of the bruise that marked her jaw.
‘Concerning my father.’
Mallington. And he knew he would not refuse her after all. ‘Very well, mademoiselle.’
‘Perhaps we could talk somewhere more private.’
He felt the register of surprise, along with a sliver of excitement at the prospect of what it could be that she wished to tell him.
‘If that is what you desire.’
He saw Molyneux standing not so far away, the Lieutenant’s gaze darting between the girl and Dammartin.
‘There is a river down through the woodland.’
She nodded her agreement.
Dammartin headed towards the trees, leaving Molyneux staring after them.
They walked in silence through the woodland, down the slope that ran towards the river, with only the tread of their boots over soil and the snapping of twigs
