Jane Feather - Violet

Cornichet seemed to be struggling with his senses, his eyes popping, his jaw working, but before he could gather himself together, his visitor had jumped sideways, back through the ripped canvas, and suddenly he was alone in the small odiferous space. If it weren't for the hole in the canvas and his own denuded uniform, he could almost believe he'd dreamed the whole mortifying episode.

Then he grabbed up his britches, yanking them to his waist, bellowing, “A moi… a moi,” as he burst out into the encampment.

Men came running from all sides, and the irate colonel screamed instructions and garbled explanations as he fumbled with the waist of his britches, his button less tunic flapping open.

Julian realized that Gabriel had vanished as they dived into the woods, hearing the uproar behind them. “We have to split up,” Tamsyn shouted as they raced neck and neck through the undergrowth. “If we separate, it'll be much harder for them to follow us.”

''I’m not letting you out of my sight,” the colonel gritted, seizing her wrist when she ducked sideways.

“I gave you my word!”

“I'm still not letting you out of my sight. Now, run, girl!”

“What do you think I'm doing?” she demanded crossly. “And if you had a brain between your ears, milord colonel, you'd realize that my horse is with your men, and I'll be damned if I'm about to leave him with you.”

“I believe in added insurance” was the cool response. “You don't know the first thing about guerrilla warfare.” It was the last word from either of them on the subject as they pounded onward, heedless of any noise or tracks they might be making. Speed was all that counted.

Confused shouts came from behind them, and rifles cracked erratically. Someone yelled in pain, and there was a roar of fury.

“Sounds like they're shooting each other,” Tamsyn gasped with a gleeful little chuckle. “They don't know what they're looking for. Just imagine Cornichet trying to explain what happened…”

“Stop gloating and save your breath,” Julian ordered, although his own lips twitched at the image of the usually immaculate colonel with his waxed mustache standing in his drawers and his desecrated tunic trying to describe his encounter in the latrine.

A bullet whined over their heads, and suddenly all desire to laugh abandoned them. They were drawing close to the outskirts of the wood where the colonel's men awaited them, but close wasn't good enough with bullets clipping one's ears..

Tamsyn veered sideways, dragging the colonel with her, pushing through what looked to him to be an impenetrable tangle of prickly bushes, but somehow a path revealed itself, although the bushes tore at their clothes.

Then they broke free into the clearing. The sergeant, hearing the uproar, had the twenty men of the Sixth mount; swords in their hands, ready to charge whatever might come at them. Tamsyn scrambled onto Cesar's back just as Gabriel crashed through the undergrowth, his broadsword in his hands. He raised a hand in greeting, his expression as benign and untroubled as always, and swung onto his own charger.

“The men are spoiling for a fight, sir,” the sergeant said, stroking the hilt of his sword. “Reckon they deserve their fun.”

Colonel St. Simon shook his head. “There'll be fighting aplenty at Badajos.” He wheeled his horse, ordering his men forward with an upraised hand.

The cavalcade galloped from the clearing just as a small group of pursuing French burst through, but they were on foot and could do nothing but watch in frustration as their quarry disappeared into the darkness.

St. Simon drew level with Tamsyn's milk-white Arabian. He noticed that she had a long scratch on her cheek from the thorny bushes they'd encountered on their retreat, but it didn't seem to bother her.

How the hell did she manage to claim kinship with some Cornish family? It was the most extraordinary thing, if true. He caught himself looking for signs of English blood in her complexion. She didn't have the olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes of the typical Spaniard; but fair skin, pale hair, and violet eyes, while more typically English, were not unheard of among Spanish families. On balance, there was nothing in her appearance to confirm or deny her claim. This hybrid had inherited some vigorous characteristics from somewhere, though, characteristics more likely to be associated with the robber baron than some demure English maiden… ruthlessness and arrogance, to name but two.

“I trust you're satisfied that I've fulfilled my side of our bargain?” he said with an ironic twist of his mouth.

“Perfectly, milord colonel,” she responded. “And don't pretend you didn't enjoy it, because I could see how your eyes were twinkling.”

“I'm very sure my eyes never twinkle,” the colonel said, revolted at such an image.

“Oh, but they do,” she assured him with a grin, her perfect teeth glimmering in the moonlight. “You've just never been looking in a mirror at the right moment.”

There seemed no adequate response to this, so he changed the subject. “I'll rest the horses when it's absolutely necessary, but other than that, I don't intend to stop until we reach Elvas.”

“Cesar has a great deal of stamina,” she said placidly. “And he was well rested in Cornichet's camp.”

“You, on the other hand, are very short of sleep,” he observed.

“I can sleep in the saddle. I've often done so.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Don't worry, milord colonel. I'm perfectly prepared to uphold my end of the bargain. And I've never yet dropped out of the line of march.”

Once again he could detect the currents of energy surging through the slim, upright figure. She was radiating purpose and determination, and he was instantly uneasy. Whenever he'd sensed that determined energy before, La Violette had been up to no good.

THE STEADY BOOMING OF THE GUNS BESIEGING THE WALLS OF the Spanish town of Badajos drowned all other sound as the cavalcade approached the town standing on a hill in the midst of a flat plain. The sky was metallic, clouds hanging low over the gray earth, creating a uniform colourlessness, broken only by the scarlet tunics of the cavalrymen.

Julian, riding ahead of the troop, was watching Gabriel and Violette, as usual riding off to one side on slightly higher ground. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their gestures it seemed they were engaged in some altercation. The girl was gesticulating fiercely, her body, fluid in the saddle as she made her points. The giant Gabriel in contrast seemed to exude a rocklike obstinacy, occasionally shaking his head in a sharp, brief negative.

They were a two-hour ride from headquarters in the Portuguese border town of Elvas, and Julian would be bringing in his flower just within the five days he'd set himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't bringing in a submissive, intimidated prisoner ready to have her petals plucked, but a vigorous, self-determining mercenary who might be induced to sell her secrets, but certainly wouldn't meekly divulge them for the asking. It would be interesting to see what Wellington made of her… and of his colonel's part in the play.

Julian grimaced. He'd have to find an explanation for how he'd lost his prisoner and had to agree to a negotiated settlement. The truth was far too mortifying. He could only hope that the brigand would keep her mouth shut about that riverside madness.

He became aware that the two were cantering toward him, Gabriel was not looking happy; the girl's expression was neutral. They reached him and turned their horses to ride alongside him.

“While I'm gone, I shall hold you responsible for the bairn, Englishman,” Gabriel announced gruffly, his hand, in what seemed to Julian very pointed fashion, resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Never you mind, but you're responsible, mark that well.”

Julian shook his head with a half laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to be responsible for the actions of La Violette? Good God, man, I know my limitations.”

“Not her actions, but her safety,” Gabriel declared before Tamsyn could voice her own indignation.

“And I suppose it doesn't occur to you that one has something to do with the other?” Julian said acidly.

“I am responsible for my own actions,” Tamsyn said impatiently. “And my own safety, Gabriel, you're being an old woman.”

“El Baron left your safety in my hands.” There was a mulish set to the giant's mouth. “And if y'are going off on this frolic on your own, little girl, then I'll keep faith with your father as I see fit.” He glared at St. Simon. “So, English Colonel, any harm comes to one hair of her head, and I'll cleave your head from your shoulders.”

Tamsyn raised her eyes heavenward. “No harm is going to come to me in the English headquarters, Gabriel.”

“No, that I'll guarantee,” Julian said, deciding to ignore Gabriel's extremely unfriendly threat. “For as long as she's a guest of headquarters. But if she steps outside Elvas, then it's out of my hands. I'm no nursemaid.”

“And I don't need one,” Tamsyn snapped. “Or a bodyguard. Do be off now, Gabriel. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back.”

“And I've your word you'll not move from Elvas until I return?” He glowered, clearly very unhappy.

“You have it.” She leaned over and lightly brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her smile soft, her eyes warm. “Don't fret, now. I'll be quite safe, and you know this has to be done.”

Gabriel sighed. “If you say so, little girl.” He wheeled his charger and cantered away, raising a hand in farewell.

“Poor Gabriel, he really doesn't want to go,” Tamsyn said, still with that fond smile. “He can't bear to let me out of his sight, not since…” She stopped, her eyes clouding, the smile vanishing.

“Since…?” Julian prompted.

Tamsyn shrugged. “History, milord colonel.” She shaded her eyes, gazing across the plain to the walls of Badajos. The ground beneath them was shaking now with the bombardment, and the whine of shells from the returning French fire could clearly be heard.

“Where's he going?”

Again she shrugged. “Just to fetch something. We're getting dose.”

It seemed that Violette had said all she intended to about Gabriel's mysterious journey. He nodded. “We're concentrating the bombardment on the bastions of Santa Maria and La Trinidad.”

“How soon does Wellington expect Soult to get here from Cadiz?”

“You are well informed,” he said with an ironic raised eyebrow. The impending arrival of the French marshal to relieve Badajos was one of Wellington's main anxieties.

“Of course. I fight this war, too, Colonel.”

“You fight for your own gain,” he said bluntly.

Her eyes flashed. “As does your army, sir. Only the partisans fight simply for their country, and I fight with them.”

“You deny you sell your services?” he demanded. She gave him a look of supreme contempt. “To those who can afford them, I sell them. To those who can't, I give them. Sound business principles, milord colonel. And war is business, as you damn well know. Men get rich in wartime.”

“Profiteers,” he stated in disgust.

“And what are you in it for, English milord?” she asked with the same contempt. “Nothing as vulgar as wealth, of course. So what is it? Glory… honor… rank?”

Julian made no response. It was true he pursued all those goals, but he fought for the honor of his country, for loyalty and patriotism. He wasn't going to explain such concepts to a mercenary who would only mock them.

They were skirting the trenches now outside the walls, and the sound of the bombardment was deafening. Tamsyn's Arab was skittish, tossing his head, lifting his feet high, seeming to pick his way with delicacy over the soft, rain-soaked ground,· The· cavalry horses, on the other hand, were untroubled by the noise and the uneven terrain and plodded steadily on.

When a shell burst a few feet from them, throwing up a spume of mud, Cesar whinnied in high-pitched fright and plunged sideways. Julian automatically reached for Tamsyn's bridle to steady the animal.

“Take your hand off!” she commanded with such ferocity his hand dropped immediately. Expertly, she brought the animal under control, speaking to him softly in Spanish, and when he was quiet, turned again to the colonel, her eyes spurting flame. “How dare you presume to touch my bridle?”

“I'm sorry.” He was genuinely taken aback by her fury. “I'm used to riding with my sister. She's not a natural rider, and I have to be on the alert all the time.”