silence, as if she were contemplating his words, reaching a decision, just a few moments, but time enough for his awareness of the soft curves moulded against him to grow.
She gave a reluctant nod of the head.
They stood like two spoons nestled together, the entire length of their bodies touching. And it was not anger at her escape, or the jubilation of her recapture of which Dammartin was thinking; it was not even the difficulty of the descent they had no choice but to make. For the first time, Dammartin saw Josie not as Mallington’s daughter, but as a woman, and a woman that stirred his blood.
She glanced directly down, looking to see the rock face below. Her body tensed further and she clung all the harder to the rocks, laying her face against them.
He started to move.
‘No, I cannot!’ she said, and he could hear the slight note of panic underlying her words.
‘Mademoiselle Mallington…’
‘It is too high, we cannot…’
‘Just do as I say.’
‘I cannot…please…’
There was just the sound of the wind and the rise and fall of her breathing and the feel of her body beneath his.
‘I will help you and we will reach the ground safely enough.’ He became conscious of where her hips nestled so snugly and felt the stirrings of his body response.
She hesitated before giving a tiny nod.
Josie had thought of nothing other than escape on her way up the cliff, but now she was aware of how very far the ground seemed below, of the loose, insecure surface of the rocks and the wind that pulled at both her and Dammartin. In the darkness she could not see what was safe to grip with her hands, and the skirt of her dress hid her view of her feet and where she might place them. A wave of panic swept through her and she thought that she might be stuck there, unable to move either up or down, but then the French Captain said that he would help her. He edged her to movement and the panic was gone. Slowly they began to descend the rock face.
The warm press of his body and the clean masculine smell of him pulled her mind from the danger of the rocks beneath. He was gentle, encouraging her with quiet words when she struggled to place her feet, coaxing her to keep moving when she thought she could move no more. There was no anger, no harshness, no danger, and, ironically, as they risked their lives to reach the ground, she felt safer with him now than she had ever done. It did not make sense. She did not know this new Dammartin.
She heard his exhalation of breath as they made it to the ground. The cold rushed in against her back as he moved away, opening the space between them. She turned, and was able to see him properly for the first time. Words of gratitude hovered on her lips, but she bit them back, not understanding why she wanted to thank him for saving her, when in truth he was the enemy who had just destroyed her chance of escape.
For a moment Dammartin just stood there by the foot of the slope; the weak silvery moonlight exposing the dark slash of his scar, the lean hard planes sculpting his face, and the rugged squareness of his jaw. Shadow obscured half his face, making it impossible for Josie to read his expression, but there was something in the way he was looking at her, something in his stance, that made her wonder if this was indeed the same man from whom she had run. Her gaze dropped to hide her confusion and her feeling of vulnerability.
‘You do not need to take me back,’ she said, ‘you could say that you did not find me. It is a plausible story.’
He gave a cynical laugh and shook his head. ‘What part of this do you not understand, mademoiselle? That you would not survive out here alone, or that I do not lose my prisoners?’
The arrogance of his words rankled with her, urging her pride to deny the truth in his answer. ‘I would survive very well, if you would let me.’
‘With no weapon, no shelter, no means to make fire, no food or water?’ he mocked. ‘And what of guerrillas and bandits? You think you can take them on single-handed?’
‘As a woman travelling alone, I would present no threat to any such men. They would be unlikely to harm me. I am British.’
‘You think they care about that?’ Dammartin raised an eyebrow.
Josie’s indignation rose. ‘I would have managed well enough.’
‘You are a fool if you think so—’ his eyes narrowed slightly ‘—and you would be a bigger fool to try a further escape.’
‘You cannot stop me,’ she retaliated. ‘I swear I will be long gone before you are anywhere close to Ciudad Rodrigo.’
The wolf howl sounded again, and in the moonlight Dammartin transformed once more to a sinister mode. ‘No, mademoiselle,’ he said softly, ‘you are much mistaken in that belief.’
All of Josie’s fear flooded back at the certainty in his voice.
She looked at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do, aware only that he had won, and that her failure would cost her dearly when he got her back to the camp.
There was the sound of the wind, and of quietness.
‘Please,’ she said, and hoped that he would not hear the desperation in her voice.
The scree crunched beneath his boots as he came to stand before her. ‘I will not leave you out here.’
Her eyes searched the shadow of his face and thought she saw something of the harshness drop away.
‘No more questions this night.’ He reached out and, taking her arm, pulled her from where she leaned against the slope.
He led her across to the great chestnut horse that stood waiting so patiently, his grip light but unbreakable around her arm, releasing her only long enough to mount and lift her up before him. She was sitting sideways, holding on to the front of the saddle with her left hand, and trying not to hold on to Dammartin with her right
Dammartin looked pointedly at where the hand rested upon her skirts. ‘We shall be travelling at speed.’
She gave a nod. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘As you will, mademoiselle.’
As they reached the surface of the road, the horse began to canter, and Josie gripped suddenly at Dammartin to stop herself from being thrown from the saddle. By the time the canter became a gallop, Josie was clinging tight to the French Captain’s chest, while he secured her in place with an anchoring arm around her waist.
Stars shone like a thousand diamond chips scattered over a black velvet sky. The silver sickle of the moon bathed all in its thin magical light, revealing the road ahead that would lead them back to the French camp.
For Josie there would be no escape.
Dammartin swigged from the hip flask, the brandy burning a route down to his stomach. The fire burned low before them, and most of the men had already retired for the night. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the flask to Lamont.
‘The
