A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee
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and shrugging off his jacket, hung it over the back of the wooden chair by the table.
‘I give you my word that I will not try to escape this night.’
‘Only this night?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘It is this night of which we are speaking.’
‘So you are planning another attempt tomorrow.’
‘No!’
‘Tomorrow night, then?’
‘Very well, I give you my word that I will not attempt another escape.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘So now will you arrange for another tent?’
‘Your word?’ He heard his voice harden as the memories came flooding back unbidden, the grief and revenge bitter within his mouth. He gave an angry, mirthless laugh. ‘But how can I trust that when the word of a Mallington is meaningless.’
‘How dare you?’ she exclaimed, and he could see the fury mounting in her eyes.
He smiled a grim determined smile. ‘Most easily, mademoiselle, I assure you.’
‘I have nothing more to say to you, sir.’ She spun on her heel, and began to stride towards the tent flap.
Dammartin’s hand shot out and, fixing a firm hold around her upper arm, hoisted her back. She struggled to escape him, but Dammartin just grabbed hold of her other arm and hauled her back to face him. Her arms were slight beneath his hands and he was surprised again at how small and slender she was, even though he had felt her body beneath his upon the rock face only a few hours since. He adjusted his grip so that he would not hurt her and pulled her closer.
She quietened then, looked up at him with blue eyes that were stormy. The scent of lavender surrounded her, and he could not help himself glance at the pale blonde hair that now spilled loose around her shoulders.
‘But I have not finished in what I have to say to you, mademoiselle.’ The nightdress slipped from her fingers, falling to lie between them.
They both glanced down to where the white frills lay in a frothy pool against the black leather of Dammartin’s boots.
And when he looked again, her eyes had widened slightly and he saw the fear that flitted through them.
He spoke quietly but with slow, deliberate intent, that she would understand him. ‘All the tents upon this campsite are filled, and even were they not, my men have travelled far this day and I would not drag a single one from their rest to guard against any further escape attempt that you may make. So tonight, I guard you myself. Do not complain of this situation, for you have brought it upon yourself, mademoiselle, with your most foolish behaviour.’ He lowered his face towards hers until their noses were almost touching, so close that they might have been lovers.
He heard the slight raggedness of her breathing, saw the rapid rise and fall of her breast, and the way that the colour washed from her cheeks as she stared back at him, her eyes wide with alarm.
The silence stretched between them as the soft warmth of her breath whispered against his lips like a kiss. His mouth parted in anticipation, and for one absurd moment he almost kissed her, almost, but then he remembered that she was Mallington’s daughter, and just precisely what Lieutenant Colonel Mallington had done, and all of the misery and all of the wrathful injustice was back.
His heart hardened.
When finally he spoke his voice was low and filled with harsh promise. ‘Do not seek to escape me again, Mademoiselle Mallington. If you try, your punishment shall be in earnest. Do you understand me?’
She gave a single nod of her head; as Dammartin released his grip, she stumbled back, grabbing hold of the chair back, where his jacket hung, to steady herself.
He turned brusquely away, pulling two blankets and a pillow from the bed and dropping them on to the ground sheet beside the bed. ‘Make yourself a bed. We leave early tomorrow and must sleep.’
She just stood there, by the table, looking at him, her face pale and wary.
He did not look at her, just sat down on the bed and removed his boots.
And still she stood there, until at last his gaze again met hers.
‘Make up your bed, unless you have a wish to share mine, mademoiselle.’
An expression of shock crossed her face and she hurriedly did as she was bid, extinguishing the lantern before climbing beneath the blankets on the groundsheet.
Dammartin did not sleep, and neither did the girl. The sound of her breathing told him that she lay as awake as he, so close to his bed that he might have reached his arm down and touched her. The wind buffeted at the canvas of the tent, but apart from that everything was silent.
He did not know how long he lay listening, aware of her through the darkness, turning one way and then the next as if she could find no comfort on the hardness of the ground. He rolled over, conscious of the relative softness of his own mattress, and felt the first prickle of conscience.
Goddamn it, she was his prisoner, he thought, and he’d be damned if he’d give his bed up for Mallington’s daughter. Just as he was thinking this, he heard her soft movements across the tent, and with a reflex honed by years of training, reached out through the darkness to grab at her dress.
He felt her start, heard her gasp loud in the deadness of the night.
‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said quietly, ‘do you disregard my warning so readily?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I seek only my cloak. The night is cold. I am not trying to escape.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up, guiding her back towards him, turning her in the blackness and tracing his hands lightly around her, like a blindman, until he found her hands. Even through the wool of her dress he could feel that she was chilled. Her fingers were cold beneath his before she pulled away from his touch.
‘Go back to your bed, mademoiselle,’ he said curtly.
‘But my cloak…’
‘Forget your cloak, you shall not find it in this darkness.’
‘But—’
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said more harshly.
He heard the breath catch in her throat as if she would have given him some retort, but she said nothing, only climbed beneath the blankets that he had given her earlier that night.
Dammartin swept his greatcoat from where it lay over his bed, and covered the girl with it.
‘Captain Dammartin…’ He could hear her surprise.
‘Go to sleep,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thank you,’ came the soft reply.
He turned over and pulled the blanket higher, knowing himself for a fool and slipping all the more easily into the comfort of sleep because of it.
Josie awoke to the seep of thin grey daylight through the canvas overhead. Sleep still fuddled her mind and she smiled, burrowing deeper beneath the cosiness of the covers, thinking that her father would tease her for her tardiness. Voices sounded outside, French male, and reality came rushing back in, exploding all of her warm contentment: Telemos, her father’s death, Dammartin. Clutching the blankets to her chest she sat up, glancing round apprehensively.
The bed in which Dammartin had slept lay empty; she was alone in the tent. The breath that Josie had been holding released, relief flowed through her. She got to her feet, her head woolly and thick from her lack of sleep.
How may hours had she lain awake listening to the French Captain’s breathing, hearing it slow and become more rhythmic as he found sleep? For how many hours had the thoughts raced through her head? Memories of her father and of Telemos. She had spoken the truth; the night was black and most of the fires would be dead; she had no torch, and she