A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee
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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 men were taking bets on whether you would find her.’ Lamont took a gulp of the brandy before returning the flask.
‘Did you win?’ asked Dammartin.
‘Of course,’ replied the little Sergeant with a smile, and patted his pocket. ‘I know you too well, my friend.’
They sat quietly for a few minutes, the sweet smell of Lamont’s pipe mingling pleasantly with that of the brandy, the logs cracking and shifting upon the fire.
‘She has courage, the little mademoiselle.’ It was Lamont who broke the silence.
‘She does,’ agreed Dammartin, thinking of Josie halfway up that rock face, and the way she had defied him to the end. He glanced towards the tents.
Lamont followed his captain’s eyes, before returning his gaze to the glow of the burning logs. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘Take her to Ciudad Rodrigo as I am commanded.’
‘I mean, this night.’
‘What does one do with any prisoner who has attempted to escape?’ Dammartin poked at the embers of the fire with a stick.
‘She is gently bred, and a woman. You would not…?’ Lamont’s words petered out in uncertainty.
There was a silence in which Dammartin looked at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are too much your father’s son.’
Dammartin smiled at his old friend, and fitted the top back on to his hip flask, before slipping it into his pocket. ‘But she is too much Mallington’s daughter.’
There was the soft breath of the wind while both men stared wordlessly into the fire.
‘Why did she run, Pierre? The girl is no fool; she must have realised her chance of survival was slim?’
‘She was afraid.’ Dammartin’s gaze did not shift from the warm orange glow of the dying fire as he remembered Mademoiselle Mallington’s face in the moonlight as she stood at the foot of the slope. He had felt the tremor in her body, heard the fear beneath the defiance in her words. I will never answer your questions, no matter how many times you ask them. He heard the whisper of them even now. ‘Afraid of interrogation.’
Lamont gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘There is nothing of any use she can tell us now.’
‘I would not be so certain of that.’
‘Pierre…’ the older man chided.
‘I will question her again,’ interrupted Dammartin. ‘But her only fear need be what answers she will spill.’
‘And when we reach Ciudad Rodrigo, what then?’
‘Then she is no longer my problem,’ said Dammartin.
Lamont sucked at his pipe for a few moments, as if weighing Dammartin’s answer. ‘It is a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo.’
‘Do not worry, Claude,’ Dammartin gave Lamont a clap on the back. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington will give us no more trouble. I will make certain of that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sleep well, my old friend.’ And began to make his way across the small distance to where the officers’ tents were pitched.
‘And you, my captain,’ said Lamont softly, as he sat by the fire and watched Dammartin disappear beneath the canvas of his tent.
* * *
The girl was sitting at the little table, busy working her hair into a plait when Dammartin entered the tent. She jumped to her feet, her hair abandoned, the ribbon fluttering down to lie forgotten upon the ground sheet. From the corner of his eye he could see a white frilled nightdress spread out over the covers of his bed.
‘What are you doing here, Captain Dammartin?’ she demanded, her face peaked and shocked.
‘Retiring to bed.’
Her eyes widened with indignation and the unmistakable flicker of fear. ‘In my tent?’
‘The tent is mine.’ He walked over to the small table and chair.
Even beneath the lantern light he could see the blush that swept her cheeks. ‘Then I should not be here, sir.’ Hurrying over to the bed, she slipped her feet into her boots sitting neatly by its side, before grabbing up the nightdress and rolling it swiftly to a ball. ‘There has clearly been some kind of misunderstanding. If you would be so kind as to direct me to the women’s tent.’
‘You are a prisoner, mademoiselle, not a camp follower. Besides, the women’s tent is within the camp of the infantry, not my dragoons. As a prisoner of the 8th, you stay with me.’
‘Then you can show me the tent in which I am to stay the night.’ She stood facing him squarely, clutching the nightdress in a crumpled mass like a shield before her, ready to do battle.
‘You are already within that tent.’ He turned away and began to unbutton his jacket.
‘Indeed, I am not, sir!’ she exclaimed with force, and he could see the colour in her cheeks darken. ‘What manner of treatment is this? You cannot seriously expect that I will spend the night with you!’ Her nostrils flared. She stared at him as if she were some great warrior queen.
‘You speak of expectations, mademoiselle. Do you expect to be left overnight all alone, so that you may try again to escape?’
She gave a shake of her head, and the loose blonde plait hanging down against her breast began to unwind. ‘I would try no such thing. The night is too dark, and I have no torch.’
‘These things did not stop you this evening.’