turned on her heel and marched back to where Ramon waited with the horses. The Spaniard regarded her quizzically.
‘Do I take it that the answer was no?’
‘You do.’
Grabbing the reins, she remounted and turned her horse towards the gate, pausing only to throw Falconbridge one last fulminating glance as she rode on by. As the Major’s grey gaze followed her he laughed softly.
Some time later the army supply wagons set out. Falconbridge rode alongside, keeping the horse to an easy pace. From time to time he let his gaze range across the hills but saw nothing to cause him any concern. For the rest, his mind was more agreeably occupied with the strange encounter in the wheelwright’s yard. He smiled to himself, albeit rather ruefully. His response to the lady’s plight was ungallant as she had rightly said. No doubt his name was mud now. All the same he wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. It had been worth it just to see the fire in those glorious green eyes. For a while there he had wondered if she would hit him; the desire had been writ large in her face. The image returned with force. He knew he wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.
Her unusual mode of dress had, initially, led him to wonder if she was one of the camp followers, but the cut-glass accent of her spoken English precluded that at once. Her whole manner was indicative of one used to giving orders. He chuckled to himself. Miss Huntley didn’t take kindly to being refused. Under other circumstances he would have behaved better, but he had told the truth when he said he needed to deliver the supplies promptly. She had told him her destination was Ciudad Rodrigo. His smile widened. Without a doubt he’d be meeting her again and soon.
These reflections kept him occupied until the town came into view. He saw the supplies safely delivered and then headed straight to the barracks. He arrived at the quarters he shared with Major Brudenell to find the former already there, seated at the table. Though he was of Falconbridge’s age the likeness stopped there. Hair the colour of ripe wheat offset a lightly tanned face whose chiselled lines bespoke his noble heritage. He looked up from the paper on which he had been writing, vivid blue eyes warmed by a smile.
‘Ah, Robert. Everything go as planned?’
‘Yes, pretty much.’
‘The men will be pleased. That last barrel of salt pork was so rancid it could have been used as a weapon of terror. If we’d fired it at the French they’d have been in full retreat by now.’
Falconbridge smiled. ‘Maybe we should try it next time.’ He nodded towards the paper on the table. ‘Letter home, Tony?’
‘Yes. I’ve been meaning to do it for the past fortnight and never got the chance. I must get it finished before I go.’
‘Before you go where?’
‘The Sierra de Gredos. Ward has me lined up for a further meeting with El Cuchillo.’
The name of the guerrilla leader was well known. For some time he had been passing information to the English in exchange for guns. Since the intelligence provided had been reliable, General Ward was keen to maintain the relationship.
‘You’ll be gone for a couple of weeks then.’
‘I expect so.’
Falconbridge glanced towards the partially written letter. ‘I sometimes think war is hardest on those left behind.’
‘As a single man you haven’t got that worry.’
‘Nor would I seek it, notwithstanding your most excellent example.’
Brudenell shook his head. ‘I am hardly an excellent example. Indeed it has been so long since I saw my wife that she has likely forgotten what I look like.’
‘That must be hard.’
‘Not in the least. Ours was an arranged marriage with no choice offered to either party. I am quite sure that Claudia enjoys an agreeable lifestyle in London without being overly troubled by my absence.’
The tone was cheerful enough but Falconbridge glimpsed something very like bleakness in those startling blue eyes. Then it was gone. Privately he owned to surprise, for while he knew that his friend was married, he had only ever referred to the matter in the most general terms, until now. The subject was not one that Falconbridge would have chosen to discuss anyway. Even after all this time it was an aspect of the past that he preferred to forget.
It seemed he wasn’t going to be allowed that luxury as Brudenell continued,
‘Have you never been tempted to take the plunge?’
‘I almost did once but the lady cried off.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
Falconbridge achieved a faint shrug. ‘Don’t be. It was undoubtedly a lucky escape. Ever since then I’ve preferred to take my pleasure where I find it.’
‘Very wise.’
‘You condemn matrimony then?’
‘Not so,’ said Brudenell, ‘though I would certainly caution against arranged matches.’
‘Advice I shall heed, I promise you.’
‘Of course, you might meet the right woman. Have you considered that?’
‘I’ve yet to meet any woman with whom I would wish to spend the rest of my life,’ replied Falconbridge. ‘The fair sex is charming but they are capricious and, in my experience, not to be trusted. Brief liaisons with women of a certain class are far more satisfactory.’
‘You are a cynic, my friend.’
‘No, I am a realist.’
What Brudenell might have said in response was never known because an adjutant appeared at the door. He looked at Falconbridge.
‘Beg pardon, Major, but General Ward requires your presence at once.’
‘Very well. I’ll attend him directly.’
As the adjutant departed, the two men exchanged glances. Falconbridge raised an eyebrow.
‘This should be interesting.’
‘A euphemism if ever I heard one,’ replied his companion.
‘Well, I’ll find out soon enough I expect.’
With that, Falconbridge ducked out of the room and was gone.
It was late afternoon of the following day before Sabrina and her companions crossed the Roman bridge over the Agueda River, and reached the rendezvous in the Castillo at Ciudad Rodrigo. After the siege in January that year, the French had been driven out by British troops. Capture of the town and the big artillery batteries on the Great Teson had opened up the eastern corridor for Wellington’s advance into Spain. The Castillo was a hive of activity. The guards at the gate of the fortress recognised the party in the wagon and sent word of their approach, so that by the time they drew to a halt in the courtyard Albermarle was waiting. The Colonel was in his mid-fifties and of just above the average height, but for all his grey hairs he was of an upright bearing and the blue eyes were sharp and astute.
