The men rose as she left the room, and then Wellington came quickly after her, ordering the brigade-major, still at his desk, “Sanderson, see our guest safely to her lodging.”
“There's no need for that,” Tamsyn said. “I'll surely meet with no insult from your soldiers.” There was a venomous point to the statement that brought a dull flush to the commander's cheeks. He could think of no reason for her implicit accusation, and yet he found himself on the defensive.
“I trust not,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless, you will accept an escort.”
Tamsyn inclined her head. “If you say so, sir. Good night.”
She walked down the stairs, followed by the lieutenant, leaving a frowning Wellington staring after her. A strange girl, he thought. And not one to be underestimated.
Under the cold starlight Julian walked through the group of tents housing his own brigade. Two companies were at work in the trenches; the rest were off duty and sat around their fires, talking in low voices, pipe smoke drifting in a blue haze as they smoked and drank from tankards of blackstrap.
The colonel greeted them all by name, pausing to chat for a few minutes, trying to gauge their mood. Were they optimistic about the upcoming assault on the city? Eager for it? Intent on vengeance?
“Us'll be glad when we're done 'ere, sir,” a burly trooper said, phlegmatically puffing on his pipe as he cobbled a hole in the sole of his boot. “This is wretched work, beggin' yer pardon, sir.”
“Aye, but if old Hookey says us mun do it, then us mun do it,” responded his companion with a fatalistic shrug.
Julian smiled to himself as he strolled on. The men had several affectionate nicknames for their commander in chief, most of them referring to his large hooked nose. And it was true they'd follow him into hell if he expected it of them. He glanced toward the dark shape of Badajos crouching on the plain. The walls were now breached in three places, and the attack was planned for tomorrow night, but the French garrison was efficiently repairing the breaches whenever the English bombardment permitted it. The assault was going to be a bloody business at best, and the city would pay bitterly for its intransigence.
“Sergeant Gorman's been regaling the mess with the tale of Cornichet's epaulets,” a voice spoke at his shoulder out of the darkness. “I gather La Violette's something of a prankster.”
“That's one way of putting it, Frank,” Julian said dryly, turning toward the young captain who was his own aide-de-camp. “I'd call it something else myself”
“They're a perverse lot, the partisans,” Captain Frank Frobisher observed. “Treat us more like the enemy than the enemy.”
“Well, my business with La Violette is done, thank God,” Julian declared. “She can play her tricks on the Peer and see where it gets her.” He began to walk back toward his own tent. “Fancy a nightcap? I've a tolerable cognac in my tent, if Tim O'Connor hasn't had a go at it in my absence.”
Frank laughed. “I doubt even Tim's blarney would get him past Dobbin. That man of yours is a veritable Cerberus when it comes to guarding your possessions.”
They ducked into the colonel's tent, where his servant was trimming the oil lamp. A pan of water simmered on a small charcoal brazier.
“You'll be wantin' your tea, I daresay, Colonel?” Dobbin observed comfortably, knowing the colonel's invariable night-time routine in camp.
“Later… Captain Frobisher could do with a cognac.” Julian pushed forward a camp chair for his guest and bent to rummage in a wooden chest, bringing out a square bottle of fine cognac. “Have we glasses, Dobbin?”
“Aye, sir.” The servant produced them.
“Is that cognac I smell?” A pink-cheeked face poked through the tent door. “I thought you was back, Julian. Heard you had quite a junket.” Tim O'Connor brought the rest of himself into the space that seemed to shrink dramatically with his substantial bulk. He took another camp chair and beamed. “So tell us about this female bandit. Is she worth looking at?”
“Not to my taste,” Julian said dismissively, and changed the subject. “The brigade's objective tomorrow during the assault is the San Vincente bastion. Any suggestion as to how we deploy the companies?”
His two friends immediately turned their attention to brigade business and the storming of Badajos, and the subject of La Violette was dropped, but St. Simon's unwillingness to discuss his dealings with the bandit, or even to satisfy the most minimal curiosity, did not go unnoticed.
After they'd left, Julian lay on his cot, sipping his tea, thinking about the following night, about the possibility of his own death, about all the inevitable deaths. He would lose friends tomorrow. In the four years of the Peninsular war, he'd lost many such, and it didn't become any easier to accept.
La Violette had seen her share of death too. It was in her eyes, in the shadow that so often passed across her face. She was a creature of wild contrasts, he thought. A deep river of dark experience flowed beneath the bright, sensual surface.
And then he remembered that he wasn't going to think of the girl again-not of her passion, her mischief, her taunts or her griefs never again.
Chapter Seven
LIEUTENANT SANDERSON ARRIVED AT SENHORA Braganza’s cottage the next morning while Tamsyn was at breakfast in the sunny kitchen, where the door stood open onto a vegetable and herb garden, a line of beehives ranged against the warm brick wall at the rear.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” She greeted him with a cheerful smile and waved him to a chair with a hand holding a crust of bread dripping honey. “Coffee? The senhora makes an excellent cup.”
“No, thank you. The commander in chief sent me to escort you to headquarters.” The brigade-major shifted from foot to foot, clearly unsure how to impress upon this insouciantly breakfast-eating brigand the urgency of his errand. Wellington was in one of his more irascible moods, undoubtedly due to the impending assault on Badajos.
“I'll finish my breakfast; then I shall be entirely at the duke's disposal,” Tamsyn said calmly, breaking another chunk of bread from the long loaf on the table, spreading honey lavishly. “You might as well have a cup of coffee while you're waiting.”
Sanderson sat down. If he was going to be flayed, he might as well fortify himself Tamsyn accorded him an approving nod, and the senhora immediately produced a bowl of fragrant coffee.
“Is Colonel, Lord St. Simon at headquarters this morning?” she inquired pleasantly.
“Oh, no, senorita. He's with his brigade. His division will be part of the assault force tonight.”
“So it's to be tonight,” Tamsyn said. A shudder quivered along her spine. How many men would lie dead beneath those walls by morning? Would Julian St. Simon be one of them? A little cold spot began to bloom in her stomach.
She pushed back her chair with a sudden movement that took the lieutenant by surprise. He looked up from his coffee cup and drew breath sharply at her face, which had become a mask, all light and mobility banished.
Of course, if St. Simon did fall at the storming of Badajos, she'd be back to square one. A very enjoying prospect, enough to cause cold spots in anyone s belly. She stood up, wiping her sticky fingers on a chequered napkin.
“Let's go then, Lieutenant.”
Her voice, incisive and commanding, brought him to his feet immediately, abandoning his half-full cup. He found he almost had to trot to keep up with her as she strode through the streets.
Wellington greeted her with brusque courtesy. He was clearly preoccupied, and Tamsyn refused the seat he offered, choosing instead to perch on the window sill.
“So what is the price of your information, Violette?”