The commander in chief came straight to the point. “Sanderson, take notes, will you?”

The aide-de-camp sat down at the desk and began to sharpen a quill.

Tamsyn said with a cool smile, “I will tell you my price in the presence of Colonel, Lord St. Simon. Not otherwise.”

“What?” Wellington glared at her, remembering what Julian had said about the brigand's penchant for game playing. “What nonsense is this?”

“No, nonsense, sir.” She slid off the windowsill.

“That's my condition. You'll understand why when you hear my terms. You may find me at the cottage when the colonel arrives.” Without further ado she left the room, offering them both a smiling nod as she did so.

“What the devil's going on between the girl and St. Simon?” Wellington mused in an undertone that Sanderson pretended he hadn't heard since it didn't seem to be directed at him. “Something's afoot there.”

He paced the room from window to fireplace and back again. For whatever reason, Julian had made it clear he wanted nothing further to do with the girl. Was it fair to compel his presence just because the brigand insisted upon it?

But he wanted that information. Once Badajos had fallen, they'd be on the march again, north toward Campo Mayor, and Violette's knowledge would greatly facilitate the march. Besides, if he passed up this opportunity, he was unlikely to meet up with another such source.

“Sanderson, send someone to ask Colonel St. Simon to report to headquarters at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide-de-camp left at a run. It was still relatively early in the day, but in a few hours no one would have time for anything but preparations for the assault.

Julian was discussing with his company commanders the procedure for the brigade's attack on the San Vicente bastion. They would not be part of the main assault, but a flanking secondary assault made simultaneously with the main attack, intended to distract attention and divert French forces from the breaches.

The ensign, riding in great haste through the neat rows of tents, drew raised eyebrows as he approached the group of men clustered around a map spread on a rough planking table outside St. Simon's tent.

“Your pardon, Colonel, sir.” The ensign leaped from his mount, offering a sketchy salute. “The commander wishes you to report to headquarters at your earliest convenience.”

“Yesterday, in other words,” Frank said with a grin, straightening from the map.

Julian stood, frowning. What could possibly be so important that Wellington would tear him away from his brigade on the eve of battle? The answer was a red flag waving in his brain. La Violette. Whatever this was, the half-breed brigand was behind it. And by the living God, she was going to understand once and for all that he could not be pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard!

“Dobbin! My horse!” He disappeared into his tent on the bellowed instruction, leaving his officers to exchange glances of surprise. He emerged in a minute, buckling his sword belt, thunderclouds massed on the broad forehead beneath the unruly lock of red-gold hair, his bright eyes darting around his assembled staff like fire-tipped arrows.

“I'll be no more than an hour. Major O'Connor, I want that assault plan drawn up for when I return.” Impatiently, he took the reins of his horse from Dobbin and swung into the saddle.

“Yes, sir,” Tim muttered. Something was awry.

Julian rarely pulled rank and was not given to taking his ill temper out on his subordinates; it was one reason his men would follow him into hell, and the competition for a place on his staff was always fierce. Lord St. Simon was one of the youngest colonels in the armies of the Peninsular, but older men were as eager to serve under him as were his peers.

“I'll lay odds that that Violette is behind this,” Frank observed, stretching. “Julian don't care for her above half, and if she's pulling his string, the fur will fly, you mark my words.”

“Can't see a Spanish brigand getting the better of the Peer, let alone St. Simon,” Captain Deerbourne observed. “And if she's playing tricks today of all days, she's a fool.”

All eyes went as one to the walls of Badajos, shrouded in the smoke from the bombardment.

Julian cantered toward Elvas, seething. The sight of La Violette sitting on a rock on the Portuguese side of the pontoon bridge did nothing to placate him. It was as clear as day she was waiting for him, and therefore that she was responsible for this summons.

Tamsyn had indeed been waiting for him. She guessed he would not be in the best of tempers and summoned up her most charming smile, rising to meet him as he walked his mount across the swaying bridge.

“Good morning, milord colonel.” Hastily, Tamsyn stepped into his path when it rather looked as if he was going to ride straight past her. “I'm so happy to see you.” Shielding her gaze from the sun, she squinted up at him, a smile crinkling the golden skin around her eyes, her hair almost white in the sunlight. “How nice that your work did bring you into Elvas, after all.”

Julian's fingers twitched on his reins as he imagined placing them tightly around the slender column of her throat rising out of the opened white collar of her shirt… and slowly squeezing… And then he imagined his fingers sliding up behind her ears, those little shells lying flat against the side of her head, tickling in the tender skin behind…

“Get up!” he ordered curtly. “I assume we're going to the same place.” Leaning down, he extended his hand. She took it without demur, put her foot on his boot, and sprang upward, with an agile twist landing on the saddle in front of him.

“Yes, I believe we are,” she said cheerfully, leaning back against him so that he could feel the heat of her skin through her thin shirt. “It's certainly very convenient this way.”

“And as we know, you order everything to your own convenience,” he observed acidly.

“I suppose you might think that,” Tamsyn said after judicious reflection. “But you don't really know me as yet.”

“Oh, believe me, Violette, there's going to be no 'as yet,’” he declared with savage emphasis. “This is as familiar as we get.”

“If you say so.” She sounded perfectly untroubled by his statement; it was as if she were humoring a fractious child. Julian almost tipped her off his saddle at her tone.

“So the attack is to be tonight,” she said in a different tone. “You won't wish to remain long away from your brigade, but my business shouldn't take long.”

“Oh, I'm relieved to hear it, but you mustn't hurry yourself on my account. I'm certain the storming of Badajos can await your pleasure.”

Tamsyn swivelled round to look up at him. “Don't be petulant, milord colonel. It doesn't suit you, and it's not in the least convincing.”

His jaw dropped, and inadvertently he kicked his mount's flanks. The horse broke into a startled gallop, and Tamsyn, unbalanced already by her turned position, reeled on her perch.

“Hell and the devil!” Julian grabbed at her, hauling her back with one hand as he drew on the reins with his other, bringing his horse under control. “Just hold your tongue, would you?” he gritted. “It'll be a damn sight safer all round.”

“Yes, milord colonel,” Tamsyn murmured with a demure smile, allowing her body to rest against him again.

Julian wondered why he wanted to laugh. It struck him as the impulse of a bedlamite in present circumstances, but there was something about her mischief that invited-no, challenged-him to a response. It was almost as if she were saying she wasn't fooled by his attitude, that she knew he was enjoying their unorthodox proximity as much as she was if he'd only allow himself to acknowledge it.

They left his horse in the stable yard at the rear of Wellington's headquarters and entered by the outside stairs again. “He's waiting for you, Colonel.” Sanderson hastened to open the door onto the commander in chiefs sanctum.