himself down, ignoring the tiny trickle of blood on his chin. ‘I shall take that as a negative answer, which means you are still French, still the enemy…’
‘And who are you to talk?’ she demanded. ‘You are not so lily-white yourself, are you? Unless I miss my guess, you are in disgrace, so what right have you to censure me? I am going to bed. And I mean to barricade the door. And I shall be obliged if you have taken yourself off before I come down in the morning.’
He reached out to catch her wrist. She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter he gripped her. She circled round, pulling him round with her, so that she could reach the rifle he had left leaning against the wall. With all the strength she could muster, she twisted herself free and grabbed the weapon. ‘Now!’ she said, pointing it at him. ‘Do not think I don’t know how to use this because I promise you I do.’
He laughed and put up both hands in surrender. ‘Lord preserve me from a gun in the hands of a woman! You may rest easy, madame, I was only going to suggest a truce. We could help each other.’
‘How?’ she asked warily, still aiming the gun.
‘You want to go back to the British lines, do you not?’
‘Yes. Will you take me?’
‘Perhaps. If you do something for me first.’
‘It depends.’
‘You take me to Ciudad Rodrigo and get me through the French lines and later I will take you home — all the way to England, if you like.’
She lowered the gun to look at him, dumbfounded. ‘You are mad,’ she said at last. ‘They’ll kill you.’
‘Not if you vouch for me.’
‘Vouch for you!’ Her voice was almost a squeak. ‘I can hardly vouch for myself. They do not know me. Philippe and I had only just arrived when the town was taken. We had spent the winter in France while Philippe’s wounds healed and were joining a new regiment…’
‘You mean that no one in the town knew Philippe either?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I shall be Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’
‘For heaven’s sake, why? Are you tired of living?’
He laughed, but the sound was not a cheerful one. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What happened to make you so bitter?’
‘That is my business. Now, will you take me back to Ciudad Rodrigo or not?’
‘Can you speak French like a native?’
‘No, but I can understand it well enough, and, remember, I have just been hanged and my throat is sore. Why did they hang him, by the way? Why not just shoot him, so much quicker and cleaner?’
She shrugged. ‘A rope is cheaper than a bullet and, besides, a shot echoes a long way in these mountains; I suspect they did not want their hide-out found.’
‘One man’s bad fortune is another’s luck. I think my voice has been permanently affected by the ordeal.’
‘You will never get away with it.’
‘I will if you stay with me to be my guide and do the talking.’
‘You must be crazy if you think I would agree to that.’ She looked hard at him, trying to make up her mind if he was making some macabre joke at her expense, but his expression was perfectly serious and the light in his hazel eyes was not one of levity. He looked deadly serious, almost as if he was pleading with her. ‘Why do you want to do this? Do you want to change sides? If so, there are easier ways of doing it; you could simply say you had deserted — some do, you know.’
‘I could do that, of course, but this way seems the more interesting prospect, certainly more exciting than being a prisoner of war.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘I’ll do it anyway.’
‘Then you will die in the attempt.’
He shrugged. ‘Then so be it.’
He sat down at the table again with an empty glass in front of him and stared out of the window into the darkness beyond it, as if he could see something, or someone, who haunted his thoughts and dictated his actions. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said, without turning towards her. ‘Sleep on it. I shall not disturb you.’
She left him reaching for the bottle to refill his glass and made her way up to the huge four-poster. It was all part of a macabre dream; he did not exist, the guerrilleros did not exist, Philippe had not been hanged. She was in bed at home and soon Jane would wake her with her breakfast on a tray. Home! How badly did she want to go home? How much was she prepared to pay for it?
OLIVIA was awoken before dawn by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and she sprang up to look out of the window. He was riding away in the blustering wind which had followed the rain, walking his horse in the same slow, deliberate way she had seen him riding the day before. Had he had second thoughts about his preposterous idea or had he decided to go alone after all? If that were so, he would never succeed in passing the guard at the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo, let alone impersonating Philippe. It was true he was about the same height and build, and in a poor light his hair might look as dark as Philippe’s, but in the glare of day, in the face of questioning… She shuddered at the risk he would be taking. Even with her it would be bad, but at least she could give him Philippe’s uniform coat and take him to their lodgings where she could hand over her dead husband’s papers and belongings. As long as he did not speak and met no one who had known Philippe, he stood a chance, if only a slim one.
She pulled herself up short. Why should she concern herself with a disgraced English officer? Why should she care what happened to him? And why, in heaven’s name, should she delay her own return to the British lines to help him? She did not even know why he wanted to do it. She laughed suddenly. She did not even know his name. And there were other puzzling things about him — his demeanour, his speech and the way he sat his horse indicated that he had been an officer, but officers did not usually carry rifles. And the Baker rifle he had with him was only issued to the élite Rifle Brigade and their uniform coat was green, not red. Tom had often said that if he had known about the Rifles before he signed on he would have enlisted in the Ninety-fifth. Poor Tom.
She pulled on the robe and went downstairs determined to put the man from her mind; there were more important things to think of. First, she would clean the clothes she had stolen; she would have liked to say ‘borrowed’, but as she could not see how she could return them, nor pay for them, ‘stolen’ was the only appropriate word. Then she would leave the kitchen and the bedroom tidy; that at least she owed the owner of the house for her unwitting hospitality. After that, she would set off again. The coast of Portugal was to the west, so if she walked with the rising sun at her back she ought, sooner or later, to come across the British lines,
