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grimaced. ‘I doubt it.’
‘We’ll see.’
Sabrina swung down off her horse and thrust both sets of reins into his hands. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked across to the group of soldiers by the waiting wagon. As she drew nearer the two facing her looked up, becoming aware of her presence. Their expressions registered surprise and curiosity. Seeing it their companions glanced round and then the conversation stopped. Sabrina fixed her attention on the man immediately in front of her.
‘I need to speak to your commanding officer.’
‘That would be Major Falconbridge, ma’am.’
‘Can you tell me where he is?’
‘Over there, ma’am,’ the soldier replied, nodding towards a dark-haired figure crouching beside one of the draught horses tethered nearby.
Sabrina thanked him and went across. Though the Major must have heard her approach he didn’t look up, his attention focused on the horse’s near foreleg. Strong lean fingers ran gently down the cannon bone and paused on the fetlock joint.
‘Major Falconbridge?’
‘That’s right.’ The voice was pleasant, the accent unmistakably that of a gentleman.
‘I am Sabrina Huntley. May I have a word with you, sir?’
He did look up then and she found herself staring into a tanned and clean-shaven face. Its rugged lines had nothing of classical beauty about them but it made her catch her breath all the same. Moreover, it was dominated by a pair of cool, grey eyes, whose piercing gaze now swept her critically, moving from the tumbled gold curls confined at her neck by a ribbon, and travelling on by way of jacket and shirt to breeches and boots, pausing only to linger a moment on the sword at her side and the pistol thrust into her belt. As it did so a gleam of amusement appeared in the grey depths. Then he straightened slowly.
‘I am all attention, Miss Huntley.’
Sabrina’s startled gaze met the top buttons of his uniform jacket and then moved on, giving her a swift impression of a lithe and powerful frame. Her heart skipped a beat and just for a moment her mind went blank to everything, save the man in front of her. With an effort she recollected herself and, adopting a more businesslike manner, explained briefly what had befallen the wagon.
‘I must get to Ciudad Rodrigo tonight. I need the services of the wheelwright at once.’
‘I regret that I cannot help you,’ he replied, ‘for as you see his services are already engaged.’
‘My business is most urgent, Major.’
‘So is mine, ma’am. Were it not so I would have been delighted to oblige you.’
‘Can you not delay your repairs a little?’
‘Indeed I cannot. I must deliver these supplies today or my men won’t eat.’
The tone was even and courteous enough but it held an inflection of steel. She tried another tack.
‘If I do not get help my men and I will be forced to spend the night in the open.’
‘That’s regrettable, of course, but fortunately the weather is clement at this season,’ he replied.
Her jaw tightened. ‘There is also the chance of encountering a French patrol.’
‘There are no French patrols within twenty miles.’ He paused, eyeing the sword and pistol. ‘Even if there were I think they would be foolhardy to risk an attack on you.’
Her green eyes flashed fire. ‘You are ungallant, sir.’
‘So I’m often told.’
‘Would you leave a lady unaided in such circumstances?’
‘Certainly not, but on your own admission you have several men to help you.’ He paused. ‘May I ask what your wagon is carrying?’
There was an infinitesimal pause. Then, ‘Fruit.’
One dark brow lifted a little. ‘I think your fruit will be safe enough, ma’am.’
Sabrina’s hands clenched at her sides. ‘I do not think you understand the seriousness of the case, Major Falconbridge.’
‘I believe I do.’
‘I must have that wheelwright.’
‘And so you shall—tomorrow.’
‘I have never met with so discourteous and disobliging a man in my life!’
‘You need to get out more.’
Hot colour flooded into her face and dyed her cheeks a most becoming shade of pink. He smiled appreciatively, revealing very white, even teeth. Sabrina fought the urge to hit him.
‘For the last time, Major, will you help me?’
‘For the last time, ma’am, I cannot.’
‘Bruto!’
The only reply was an unrepentant grin. Incensed, Sabrina 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