Violet

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?”

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.

“Oh, good. You're both here.” Wellington stood up from his desk, his expression curt. “I'm sorry for this, Julian, but La Violette insists that you must be part of these negotiations.”

“So I assumed, sir.” Julian regarded Tamsyn with ill disguised resentment. “Very well, you've got what you wanted, now let's get on with it. I've more important things to do with my time this morning than humoring the mercenary spawn of a bloody brigand.”

Wellington hid his astonishment at this brutal speech.

A man didn't speak like that to a mere acquaintance, let alone a stranger.

Tamsyn, however, seemed unconcerned. “Yes, I understand you're both busy, but the timing of this business was not of my choice, I'll have you remember, milord colonel. I came here under your escort.”

“Having delayed us by two days,” he snapped.

“Now, what do you want, girl?”

Tamsyn shrugged and sat down uninvited on a chair before the desk, crossing her legs, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. “Very well, to points. I will give you the information you desire, my lord, except that about the partisan armories. The condition of their weapons is not mine to reveal. They will tell you what they wish you to know. I'll also draw for you a detailed map of the mountain passes El Baron used between Spain and France. Some of them are very narrow and treacherous, but I daresay you'll discover that for yourself. They're not, to my knowledge, known to the French.”

“Good… good,” Wellington said, rubbing his hands. “This is all very good… very useful.” He glanced at St. Simon. “Don't you agree, Julian?”

“Oh, yes,” Julian agreed. “Very useful.” He stood against the door, his arms folded, his eyes brightly sardonic as they rested on Tamsyn. “And what do you want of us, brigand?”

“Yes, Violette. Your price?”

Tamsyn paused before answering, her eyes on her lap, her fingers playing cat's cradle; then she looked up and met the colonel's eye before switching her gaze to Wellington. “My price, sir, is the colonel… Lord St. Simon.”

The silence in the room was as deep and impenetrable as the grave. The two men stared at Violette, who sat back in her chair, a picture of relaxation, no sign of the ferment in her head. It was a stroke of such boldness, she was actually amazed at herself for conceiving the plan, let alone executing it.

“This is some lunatic raving,” Julian declared, breaking the silence, his voice harsh as a scouring pad. “Either that or you're making game of His Majesty's army, girl, and that will cost you dear!” He crossed to her chair and leaned over her, bracing his hands on the chair back on either side of her head. She was impaled on the bright-blue ferocity of his eyes as he said very slowly and distinctly, “Cease this idle foolishness, or I'll have you thrown in irons in the stockade.”

“Hear me out,” she said simply, not flinching, although it cost her some effort.

“Let her speak, Julian.”

“Speak!” The colonel whirled toward his commander, his eyes stark in his white face, his mouth a thin slash in a clenched jaw. “The girl's either moon mad or she's making game of us. Must I remind you, sir, that men are going to die tonight and this… this distempered chit is playing us for fools.”

“No, I'm not,” Tamsyn said swiftly. “I do assure you I'm not. Only hear me out.”

“Go on,” Wellington instructed, holding up a hand to silence the younger man's seething tirade. “But keep to the point. I warn you, if this is some kind of game, then I'll send you back to Cornichet gift wrapped and with my compliments.”

The threats were flowing thick, fast, and most unpleasantly. Tamsyn swallowed the little nut of fear in her throat, reminding herself that the stakes were very high, and began to explain the plan that would require the cooperation of Lord St. Simon.

“I explained that my mother was English. Her family came from Cornwall… your home county, Colonel.”

Julian's expression was dark. “What has that to do with me?”

“Well, I thought you could help me rediscover my mother's family,” she said simply. “My mother wouldn't tell me their name. She… she had not been happy with them, and when she met my father, she chose to cut herself off completely from that part of her life and heritage.”

Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened the locket and held it out to Wellington. “This is a picture of her. With my father. The locket is a family heirloom, and I thought perhaps with this and the portrait I might be able to locate them. My mother implied that they were quite a prominent family.”

Wellington examined it and then handed it to Julian, who looked at it without really taking it in, his mind running over Cornwall's powerful families. The St. Simons and the Penhallans were the greatest landowners with the most political influence. Tregarthan, the St. Simon estate, and the Penhallan estate of Lanjerrick took up half the county. His lip curled unconsciously at the thought of the Penhallans. The viscount pursued his political ambition with utter ruthlessness, but his character was a shining example of moral rectitude compared with his nephews, the loathsome twins.

He dropped the locket onto a side table, and the delicate filigree chain chimed as it fell. “There's no heraldic device on this… no insignia to identify it.”

“But there's her picture inside,” Tamsyn stressed.

“Look inside.”

Wellington picked it up again, snapping it open. The woman was undoubtedly Tamsyn's mother; the likeness was striking: the same locket hung around her neck, and she was smiling, radiating perfect happiness. He handed it to St. Simon, who read the signature on the back of the woman's portrait. She'd signed herself simply Cecile, in a flowery hand, full of energy. The date was a mere three years ago.

He glanced at Tamsyn, who sat quietly, waiting. He examined the man's portrait, struck by the elegant features of this notorious robber baron. Black eyes like a hawk's regarded him with a quizzical air from the delicate frame. Tamsyn had her father's mouth and that particularly resolute set of the jaw; her mother's eyes and coloring.

“So?” He handed back the locket. “Even if we believe your mother was English, what is that to do with anything?”

“Why, everything,” she said. They listened while she explained that her parents had been killed six months earlier, that her own men had either been killed in Cornichet's ambush or had disbanded; that, with the exception of Gabriel, she was alone in the world.

The pathos of her story was somehow accentuated by the scarcity of detail. She said nothing as to how her parents had met their deaths, merely stated the fact. Her appeal when she made it was to Wellington. St. Simon still bore the look of a man seething and impatient, definitely not one to respond sympathetically to a sad tale, but she thought she might be able to tug the commander’s heartstrings.

“I would like to discover my mother's family,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap, offering the duke a tremulous smile. “I have no one in the world to care for me or to give me a home. I thought if I could find them, they might take me under their wing. Only I see some difficulties.”

The colonel made a sound between a snort and an oath and exchanged a comprehending glance with the duke. Some difficulties. This girl clearly didn't know the first thing about English society, how closed and prideful it was.

“And supposing you do identify them, just how do you intend to introduce yourself?” Julian demanded scornfully. “Are you going to walk up to them and say, 'I'm your long-lost cousin,' or whatever relationship you are?”

“No, I can quite see that that wouldn't do,” she said in a doleful tone that caused the duke to look reproachfully at the colonel. “I don't think they'd be prepared to accept me as I am. I don't know how to go on in such society… indeed, I know nothing of England but what Cecile told me. And besides”-a delicate flush mantled the sun-browned cheeks-”there is one other awkwardness… “

“Do go on, my dear.” Wellington had quite lost his earlier harshness.

“It's somewhat embarrassing… but, you see, I'm not entirely sure that Cecile and the baron were ever properly married… in the eyes of the Church,” she said in a rush, twisting her fingers into impossible knots.

“Oh,” said the duke.

“Well, my mother's family might consider that I didn't have a claim on them if they knew that, don't you think?” she said anxiously, fixing her great purple eyes on his face.

He cleared his throat. “It is possible, yes.”

“Why on earth wouldn't they formalize their relationship?” Julian demanded “If they were inseparable, as you implied last night, and· they had a child.”

“I don't believe they considered it in the least important,” Tamsyn said truthfully. “And as for me, well, I know I was an accident-”

“Sweet heaven, what a euphemism!” Julian broke in with a harsh laugh. “Would to God the world had been spared such an accident”

“That is unkind,” Tamsyn protested, looking tremulously at Wellington.

He scratched his nose. What did Julian have against the girl? She seemed a plucky little creature. “I'm at a loss to know what this is leading to, senorita. How can Lord St. Simon assist you?”

“Oh, that's simple,” Tamsyn said, cheering up immediately. “I don't think it should take me more than six months to learn to be an English lady. My plan is that the colonel will accompany me to England… to Cornwall… and teach me what I need to know; then I can try to discover my mother's family. Someone must have heard the story of a daughter vanishing twenty years ago on a visit to Spain. And I hope, when I'm presentable, I can effect an introduction. We could say that my mother married a Spanish grandee of true hidalgo blood and I was told of my English heritage only at her deathbed. I thought we could say that the colonel met my father in some circumstances and because of an obligation to him agreed to take me under his protection when I was orphaned.

“And perhaps,” she added with a winsome smile at the duke, “perhaps it would help if we could say that your grace lent me your protection also.”

“You thought we could say what?” exclaimed the colonel when this succinct speech had sunk in.

“That you took me-”

“All right, I heard!” he interrupted with an abrupt motion of his hand. “I've never heard such a preposterous jumble of invention in my life.”

“But it will serve,” Tamsyn insisted stubbornly. “I know it will. All I want is six months of your time, milord colonel. I have plenty of funds of my own, so I'll not be a charge on you in any way. I'm asking only for your attention for a limited time. You see, I don't know anyone else to ask,” she added, turning once more in appeal to the duke. “And it's so convenient that you should be Cornish.”

“Preposterous!” Julian repeated in disgust. “I've wasted enough of my time on you.”

“Then there's nothing more to be said,” Tamsyn said, and there was no sign now of the forlorn orphan in the obstinate set of her chin and the briskness of her tone. “Forgive me for wasting your time, sir.” She rose and bowed to Wellington, then, without casting so much as a glance in the colonel's direction, stalked out of the room.

“Consider for a minute, Julian,” Wellington said slowly. “Six months, it's not so very great a commitment.”

“What?” Julian stared at the duke in disbelief “You'd have me play schoolmaster and mentor to that… that… misbegotten devil's spawn… leave the Peninsula. Good God, sir, how could you consider such a thing?”

“You could do me an immeasurably valuable service while you were in England,” Wellington said, sounding pensive. “I've been wondering whom to send. And six months is not so very great a time. You know how slowly things move out here. You'll be back in no time.”

Julian could find no words as the incredible realization dawned that his commander in chief wanted him to take on this unbelievable assignment.

He stared in disbelief for a second, then said, “Excuse me.” With a curt bow he turned on his heel and left the room. Disbelief warred with wild fury in a bewildering maelstrom of emotion that chased away all clarity of mind and purpose.

He ran down the stairs and out into the street, brushing past an orderly, his face hidden by the towering pile of the commander's freshly laundered shirts in his arms. The mountain shook and toppled to the street. The colonel didn't even notice, simply continued at a near run, leaving the orderly cursing and muttering as he picked up the laundry from the dusty cobbles.

Julian saw Tamsyn outside Senhora Braganza's cottage as he rounded the corner. She was leaning against the wall idly chatting with the senhora, who was working in her garden.

“Ah, milord colonel.” Tamsyn greeted his arrival with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you'd said your piece.”

“Oh, believe me, I haven't even begun,” he declared, and despite her bravado, Tamsyn quailed before the livid countenance. She opened her mouth to say something she hoped was defusing, but the colonel swept an arm around her waist and bundled her ahead of him into the cottage.

On her knees before a row of cabbages, Senhora Braganza stared after them, then shook her head, muttering to herself as she dragged a weed by its roots from the thin soil.

Tamsyn reached her small room under the eaves as breathless as if she'd run up the stairs herself, although she was fairly certain her feet hadn't touched ground from the moment Julian's arm had come around her waist. The door crashed shut as she was thrust into the room, still imprisoned in the colonel’s arm.

“By God!” he said in a whisper so contained it had the power of a shout. “By God, girl, you're not going to do this to me!” His free hand was at her eat, forcing her chin up so she was looking up at him, end every distinct word he spoke fell on her face almost like a slap. “I am not going to allow you to force this on me. You are a manipulative, lying little thief and your presence in my life ends right here… in this room at this minute! Have you taken that into your devious head, girl?”

Tamsyn's mind raced. What she heard in his voice was akin to desperation beneath the savagery of his manner. He was afraid that somehow he'd find himself doing what she wanted against every ounce of will he possessed. What was he afraid of? Exactly what pressure could force him to help her? Wellington’s orders, of course. And she was counting on the duke’s pressing need for her information. But she didn't think Wellington would go beyond persuasion. It was quite another matter to compel one of his officers to do something so out of the line of duty. Which left her… The colonel was afraid of her, of what she on her own could persuade him to do.

He was still holding her roughly against him, his hand ungentle against her throat, forcing up her chin. But her own hands were free, and deliberately she slipped her arms around his body, turning herself slightly in his hold so now It would look to anyone who didn't know otherwise as if they were locked in a passionate embrace.

He jumped at her movement, his expression incredulous as he realized what she was doing. “You little whore!” he exclaimed, yanking her hands away from him, thrusting her from him with such vigor that she almost stumbled.

“No,” Tamsyn protested. “Not so. You were holding me so tightly, It seemed the most natural thing to do.”

He looked so astounded, she could almost have felt sympathy, but the stakes were too high, and she pressed her advantage, stepping closer to him again. “It was only a suggestion, milord colonel.” Her eyes were so huge, he felt as if he were slipping into them, her smile so seductive, the ground seemed to quiver beneath his feet.

She raised a hand and lightly traced the shape of his mouth. “So stern,” she murmured, her smile broadening. “Relax, I'm offering only pleasure. Remember how wonderful it was by the river, think how we could have times like that whenever we wanted them.”

“Harlot! You'd sell yourself-”

“No,” Tamsyn, interrupted, the seductive gleam leaving her eyes. I’m not selling myself. The only thing I’m selling is information that your commander in chief would dearly like to buy. I was offering you compensation, that's all.”

“Compensation for dancing attendance on the bastard brat of a murdering robber!”

“Oh!” Tamsyn exclaimed, rendered momentarily speechless. “You have all the chivalry of a wood louse!

In all honesty and… and desirous affection, I suggest we make love and you-l.”

“Desirous affection!” He gave a short crack of disbelieving laughter. “Where the hell did you dredge up an expression like that? And what kind of gull do you think I am to fall for such a line?”

“It's true,” she insisted fiercely.

Julian stood very still for a minute. His gaze ran slowly down the lean, tensile frame in front of him. She was thrumming with energy and indignation, and something else. That determination and purpose he'd felt the first moment he'd touched her. She was fully prepared to use her body to persuade him to do what she wanted. Well, it was time La Violette learned that not everyone could be molded to her purpose.

“Desirous affection, eh?” he mused, his hands on his belt buckle. “Prove it to me, Violette.” He unfastened the buckle and swung free the heavy belt weighted with his sword, placing it on the table beneath the window. “What are you waiting for?” He glanced at Tamsyn, who still stood in the middle of the room. “Take your clothes off.”

Somehow this was not going according to plan. It seemed as if it was, and yet something was amiss. However, having started on this course, Tamsyn felt compelled to continue. She kicked off her boots and undressed swiftly, tossing her clothes to the floor.

The colonel stood naked, feet apart, hands resting on his hips when she turned back to him. “I'm eager to see this demonstration of desirous affection,” he drawled. “But I should warn you that I have very little time, so I hope your harlot's tricks are effective.”

Tamsyn quivered and her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I believe you'll find them so, milord colonel,” she said, stepping up to him.

Something warned him just in time, and he spun sideways as she brought her knee up in a vicious jab to his groin. “Fieral” he bellowed, his nostrils flaring. His thigh throbbed where her knee had made savagely jarring contact, and he felt sick at the thought of what would have happened if it had met its intended target.

“You dare to insult me in such fashion!” she yelled back, rubbing her knee where it had made bruising contact with his hard-muscled thigh. “Get out of here! I wouldn't touch you if you were the last man on earth.”

“Oh, wouldn't you? And just what happened to desirous affection?” He swooped on her, catching her around the waist, carrying her to the bed. “That died pretty quickly, didn't it?”

Tamsyn was aware of his vitally aroused body as he dropped her onto the coverlet. Obviously, the man liked a good fight… annoyingly, in the circumstances, so did she. Her body was tingling where his skin touched her, and there was a whirling excitement in the pit of her belly.

He leaned over her, pushing a knee between her thighs, and there was a predatory hunger in the bright blue eyes. “Or did it?” he demanded, nudging her thighs apart.

“The affection part did,” Tamsyn declared, moistening suddenly dry lips. His hand had found her now. His eyes never left her face as he played on her as if she were a lute string, plucking and stroking until she sang beneath his touch. When her little whimpering cries of ecstasy filled the small room, he slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her to meet him as he drove deep within her body while it still pulsated with her pleasure.

Satisfaction glittered in his eyes now as he moved above her, still watching her face with rapt intensity. He ran a finger over her lips, and she could taste the musky fragrance of her own body. He smiled. She smiled back, moving easily with his rhythm, as the deep, warm joy began to fill her belly and flow like honey in her veins. It was hard to imagine that a few short minutes before, they'd been fighting like a pair of mongrel curs.

His eyes glowed and he lowered his mouth to hers, the speed of his movements increasing as his tongue plunged and danced with hers and their cries of pleasure became as entangled as their bodies and the sweet liquid flow of arousal.

Tamsyn fluttered down to earth, a fragile leaf dropped finally by the airborne currents of ecstasy. She stroked Julian's back, where sweat glistened in the morning sunlight, feeling her own sweat gathering between her breasts, crushed by his weight.

Reluctantly, he moved away from her, his breath still ragged as he dropped onto the narrow cot beside her. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side, turning to look at her as she lay on her back. He passed a hand over her belly in a gesture that was as much farewell as acknowledgment of shared joy, then heaved himself to his feet.

Tamsyn lay and watched him dress in silence. If that demonstration of naked desire and its delicious fulfilment had altered his determination to deny her his assistance, he gave no sign. He buckled on his sword belt and came back to the cot, bending to kiss her, a light, friendly farewell.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. “Give Gabriel my regards when he comes to fetch you.”

The door closed, and she heard his booted feet hurrying down the wooden stairs as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon was proving to be more resistant than she'd expected. Tamsyn got off the bed and went to the window, watching him stride up the street. Next time she saw him, the battle for Badajos would be over. It was neither reasonable nor feasible to renew her attack until then.

Always assuming he was alive in the morning.