Marrying the Royal Marine (16 page)

She realised her eyes were squeezed shut, so she opened them to see what he was doing. To her increasing warmth and utter gratification, his eyes were closed and he had a slack look on his face, in vast contradiction to his usual military demeanour. She was a total amateur, and this man of experience was putty in her hands.

She kept her touch gentle, exploring him, running her hand next across the junction where his hip and thigh met. Miss Pym had taken them once to a gallery, where she had admired the cool marble men with sculpted bones and muscle. There was something elegant about the way Hugh Junot worked. Why quibble? All bodies had the same hip-and-thigh junction, but to feel another’s skin and bone under her probing fingers was a glory she had not anticipated, in her rush to lose her own virginity. Perhaps this was less about her, and more about them, an epiphany that took away her breath for a moment.

She began to breathe deeper then, because he was touching her now. His fingers were soft as he probed into her body, taking his time as though they had hours and privacy and endless freedom to examine the nature of men and women. She had thought his probing, which grew more insistent, might be painful, until she realised that she was turning into liquid.

‘Is this going right?’ she asked, wondering for a moment why her mouth didn’t work as well as usual.

‘Superbly well, Brandon,’ he said. She was glad to note she wasn’t the only one having a tussle with speech. He sounded less than sober, slurring his words in a way that smacked of brandy.

She had been lying on her side, with his leg thrown over hers. Suddenly it wasn’t comfortable; she turned on to her back and put her arms around him. His swollen member grazed her leg now as he gathered her closer, kissing her breasts, and then carefully taking her nipple into his mouth, which made her sigh.

He kissed her lips next, and then her neck.
‘Madame Junot, je t’aime,’
he whispered. ‘You’re the bonniest lass in the universe and I am happy to be your man.’

She pulled him closer, not sure what to do with her body. It seemed almost to be thinking independently, as she felt more heat gather around her loins.
I wish you would enter me
, she thought, then realised he was probably not telepathic. ‘I wish you would enter me,’ she whispered.

‘In a minute, Brandon. Let’s have all the fun we can for as long as we can,’ he told her.

In small circles, he began to massage her mound of Venus, sitting up so she saw his erect organ and she could watch what he did to her. She could not help thrusting up towards him then, which embarrassed her at first, but not for long. She decided enough was enough, and reached up to pull him down to her again. She clung to him, her fingers splayed out on his spine. She found herself pushing on his buttocks and starting to pant in his ear. She wasn’t sure about the protocol, but it seemed a good thing to run her tongue inside his ear and breathe a little harder.

The result amazed her. Who knew that ears were so useful to lovemaking? Not her. Now it was his turn to mutter something indistinct and raise himself directly over her, one hand under her back and the other on his member as he coaxed her legs a little wider apart and slid himself inside.

It wasn’t a totally uncontested passage. He positioned her more firmly under him and advised her to breathe deep breaths. It was good advice, because she relaxed after a momentary twinge, then decided on her own to wrap her legs around him, as he went deeper at a sedate pace: no hurry. He must have approved, because it was her turn to discover the delights of a tongue in the ear and reflect—as well as possible, anyway—on what that did to her mind.

And then it was all rhythm, which pleased her enormously. She had always been musical. The rhythm climaxed into a greater stiffening inside her, then a huge relaxation that filled her with peace, even as Hugh bowed over her body and try to stifle his groans into the hollow of her shoulder. She kissed his hair, sweaty now, and felt them turn into one being.

She would have liked the moment to have lasted longer, but as they lay together, she could almost feel the waves of exhaustion pouring off both of them. She opened her eyes to see his closed, his face a testament to fatigue. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she whispered, her hands on his hair. Eyes still closed, he smiled and kissed her forehead. Still inside her, he turned carefully on to his back, pulling her on top of him. In another moment he slept, and so did she.

He woke her before daylight, and made love to her again, moving slowly because he had little energy. As dawn came, they went through the entire ritual again, this time with more confidence. Their slow, deliberate pace this time aroused her beyond her ability to refrain from crying out in pleasure, as waves of rhythm seemed to spill from her body into his. He quickly put his hand over her mouth, and kept it there as he bowed his head over her, then put his face into her shoulder to silence himself, as he followed her in pleasure.

When they were more entirely satisfied than she ever would have thought humanly possible, he cuddled her close to his side. ‘Brandon, I think Cadotte’s Corporal will have to sling us over the horse today like meal sacks,’ he whispered, and covered her mouth again when she giggled. ‘Can you fathom our potential, if we ever get anything to eat?’

‘I wish you would not talk of meal sacks! Lord, I am hungry. Let me remind you we have been married since São Jobim.’

‘I feel that way, too,’ he agreed, feeling reflective. ‘Seriously, you know we have to have someone exhort us and counsel us and remind us that marriage is a remedy against fornication, and we have to sign papers and cry banns, and Lord, I have that all out of order. Maybe I should ask someone for your hand in marriage, but who that would be escapes me. Cadotte?’

She smothered her laugh in his bare chest, then grew serious. ‘Nothing’s happened in the right order. And please don’t think I am angling for a proposal. You have not compromised me because I asked for what you gave.’
There
, she thought.
I am honest.

Hugh reached over and handed her her spectacles, contemplating her. ‘Hold that thought, Brandon.’

He kissed her forehead. It was so chaste, so disarming, that she felt her heart turn over. Polly sat up and put on her spectacles. ‘I mean it, Hugh,’ she told him quietly.

Again he looked at her in that thoughtful way that she suddenly knew, with a real pang, that she could never tire of. ‘Perhaps I should get dressed now,’ she said, a little unnerved by his level gaze.

She dressed quietly, and then it was her turn to admire him in the low light. He had not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere, especially now that they were starving, courtesy of the enemy. She wanted to ask him how he managed to maintain such posture; maybe he would tell her that was a requirement of the service. When times were better, she would ask. She decided she had no commentary to make about his manly parts. Maybe Marines were just supposed to be impressive everywhere.

He laced up his smallclothes and put on his black-and-white checked shirt again, tucking the gorget inside, and then doing up the few buttons that remained. The shirt was ripped and well ventilated, and she smiled to herself when he frowned.
You are a vain man, Colonel Junot
, she thought.
Let us hope your hair never dares to fall out.

She felt no need to look away when he strode to the edge of the ruin laughingly called a room and relieved himself. She felt a sudden breath of fear when he finished and stepped back in surprise. When he did not return to her immediately, she thought he must have trod upon something in his bare feet. He stood there a long while, then backed up a few paces before he turned around.

She wanted to ask him about that, but her eyes were closing again. When he knelt beside her and whispered for her to go back to sleep, she was happy to oblige. He put his lips close to her ear then.

‘If I am not here when you wake up, don’t worry, my love. I’ll just be around the corner, talking to our favourite jailer.’

She nodded, pleasantly aroused again when he ran his tongue around the inside of her ear and took a tentative nibble on her ear lobe.

‘Well, well, Brandon, you’re a tasty morsel. Let’s hope we find some more wheat today, or your succulent accessories might be in danger.’

‘You’re such a smooth talker,’ she said, as the little flame in her body tamped itself down and let her slumber again.

‘I am, indeed,’ he told her as he lay down beside her once more. ‘I’ll just rest here a moment.’

He returned to sleep even before she did, to her amusement. Her spectacles were off, so she got as close to him as she could, admiring his face in repose, hoping their children would look like him. She lay back herself then, nearly overcome with the tantalising thought that they might have a future.

And if we don’t, at least I have been loved
, she told herself, upon reflection. Maybe it took the clear light of dawn to remind her of her place in life. She got up on one elbow to watch him again, knowing she would never tire of her private view, even as she weighed the probability of a real marriage, and not one engineered to fool the enemy into keeping them alive. The realist in her told her such a thing would never happen, no matter what he said when in the grasp of passion. The dreamer in her admonished her to be peaceful and contemplate what she had given away, and received in return.

It was the fairest trade of her life; of that, she had no doubt.

Chapter Sixteen

H
ugh hadn’t meant to sleep again, not with the Dragoons moving about in the other room. Careful not to disturb Brandon, he raised up on one elbow to watch her lovely face. He lay back for another moment, thinking of his father’s letter last spring, admonishing him that it was high time to set up his own nursery.

He yearned to be a father. He had to give Da credit for starting him thinking along concrete lines. His thoughts had begun to solidify at Sacred Name, when he had watched Brandon playing with the little ones in the courtyard. He thought of Sister Maria Madelena and Brandon’s promise in the death house of São Jobim to raise João as her own. So be it. They would, and gladly.
There was an old bee who lived in a barn
, he thought, eager for his own father to teach that silly rhyme to a grandson or daughter. Or João. As Scots went, his father was a tolerant man. As Hugh considered it, his father also was dead right about what had ailed him.
I hope I live to tell you, Da
, he thought.

Still, marriage was a serious venture. There was not one thing Brandon had to offer that he could not get from a lady of higher degree, except her own dear self. Lying there next to her, he contemplated his career in ruins, his peers mocking him in barracks and wardrooms around the globe, his sister shocked and his father dismayed. Or not.
We live in uncertain times, Brandon, dear
, he thought,
and I do not mean the war.

He rose quietly and dressed, gratified that Brandon did not wake up, and joined his enemies. The Dragoons were tending to their mounts, but Sergeant Cadotte stood by the glow of last night’s fire, contemplating the coals as he sipped from his tin cup. He poured Hugh a tin cupful of liquid from the pot and held it out.

Ever hopeful, Hugh looked into the cup. It contained nothing more than boiled water, with what appeared to be a thin smear of wheat from last night’s poor banquet. He took a taste. Obviously the French had better imaginations than he did. No stretch of his imagination was going to turn it into coffee or tea. Still, the cup was warm in his hands, and the air had a decided chill.

‘Colonel, I am sorry we cannot give you and your wife more privacy.’

Oh, Lord. You must have heard us last night
, Hugh thought, and felt his face grow warm. At a loss, he took a sip. ‘We tried to be quiet,’ he said finally.

‘Ah, but I am in command here,’ Cadotte replied, with that hint of a twitch around his lips. ‘As you well know, Colonel, that means I sleep lighter than any trooper.’

‘I understand, Sergeant,’ Hugh said, and smiled. The Sergeant was the enemy, but he was also a man.

It was time for a massive change of subject, and Hugh had less trouble with that. The Sergeant was younger than he by many years, but every bit as experienced in the ways of war. Hugh knew he could not offer advice, but he also knew how heavy command could feel, especially when there was no one to talk to.

‘Sergeant, we are being followed.’

‘I know.’ Cadotte gave one of those Gallic shrugs that Hugh knew he could never manage, not after all the family’s years in Scotland. ‘I think we have been followed since São Jobim.’

‘I would agree.’ Here was the dilemma. Should he say more? Hugh took another sip, deciding that he liked hot water well enough. ‘Sergeant, how close are we to the Spanish border?’

He could tell his question had surprised the Sergeant of Dragoons, perhaps even knocked him off balance a little, never a bad thing with the enemy.
You are wondering why I am not asking you to just let Brandon and me go?
Hugh asked himself.

Hugh had to give the Sergeant points for shrewdness, though.

‘Colonel, we are close to the border, which will work in my favour, not yours,’ Cadotte replied, regaining his poise. ‘When I join up with my Lieutenant and our larger force—hopefully today, if not tomorrow—the
guerilleros
who seem to be content to track us will fade into the background. I think they are not now strong enough to attack us.’

Hugh could think of another reason, and wondered why the Sergeant had not. There was no sense in alerting the man. He went back to the original point. ‘Sergeant, why does moving into Spain work in your favour?’

Cadotte almost smiled then. ‘Colonel, Colonel! You know as well as I do that northern Spain is still well populated with French troops. Any hope you have of liberation by your allied troops are getting smaller the farther north we ride.’ He replaced the threatening smile with something perilously close to scorn. ‘We may have experienced a setback at Salamanca, but—excuse my plain speaking—Wellington is an idiot to besiege Burgos.’

Is that so?
Hugh thought. Good thing Cadotte had not been sitting at the conference table in Lisbon last month, hearing of Admiral Sir Home Popham’s successful raid on Santander, on the Bay of Biscay. It could be that even as they stood sparring with each other before a fire in a battered Portuguese farmyard, the balance had changed.
Or not
, he had to admit to himself again. There wasn’t much about war that was predictable. He thought briefly of the happy times when he knew exactly where he was going in life, and tucked them away as the idiocy they represented.

‘I, for one, would not mind if you just left me and Polly here to fend for ourselves.’ Surely it didn’t hurt to ask.

The Sergeant was silent, so Hugh finished his hot water and handed back the cup. Cadotte shook his head slowly, and Hugh sensed his regret. ‘Colonel, I would do as you ask, except for one reason.’ The Sergeant looked at his men, who by now had bridled and saddled their mounts. ‘Them.’

Hugh understood perfectly, even as his heart sank. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, keeping his tone light. ‘How would it look if the leader released his prisoners?’

‘What would you do in my position?’

You have me
, Hugh thought. ‘Precisely the same thing, Sergeant. Excuse me now. I will wake up my wife.’

Still, Hugh had to reflect over the next two days that Sergeant Cadotte was not as confident as he seemed. The Sergeant did not go back on his word to keep them unfettered, which was a relief. They were travelling out of the mountains now, skirting along the foothills, heading for northern Spain. The Sergeant seemed to know precisely where he was going, but he seemed in no hurry to get there, despite the hunger that rode along with them.

‘It’s odd, my love, but I think our Sergeant is almost daring our invisible
guerrilleros
to attack us,’ he whispered in Brandon’s ear as they followed the Corporal through the protecting underbrush.

He had told her yesterday of his suspicion they were being tracked, and she had surprised him. ‘I thought so,’ she had said, in that practical way of hers.

‘Brandon, sometimes you amaze me,’ he had told her.

‘That’s good,’ she said complacently.

He had let out a crack of laughter at that, which caused the Corporal to turn around in the saddle and glare at them. Sergeant Cadotte even stepped his horse out of line and watched them for a moment, frowning.

‘Perhaps he doesn’t want us to have too much fun,’ Brandon said. After the Sergeant resumed his place in line again, she turned her face into his tunic, lowering her voice. ‘What I don’t understand is why they have not attacked us.’

‘Sergeant Cadotte seemed to think they are a much smaller party than we are,’ Hugh whispered back. ‘I don’t think that’s the reason.’

‘You think they are larger?’ she asked, after a long consideration.

‘Much, much larger, my dear,’ he had replied. ‘I think they are waiting to attack until Cadotte takes them to his Lieutenant and his force.’

‘Goodness,’ Brandon had said, and nothing more.

Her pointed reminder to him not to underestimate her led him to the only reason for her silence—she knew, or at least suspected, how much more dangerous their situation had become. He could only hug her tighter, aware that she really couldn’t know how terrifying a pitched battle would be, when the
guerrilleros
finally decided to attack with overwhelming numbers. Their own chances of surviving such a mêlée were not much better than a snowflake in a furnace, but she didn’t need to know that.

The wheat lasted to noon on the second day. By nightfall, Sergeant Cadotte had led his little troop back to his regiment as accurately as a homing pigeon. Before he took them in, he bound their hands again, but not as tight as before.

‘The devil we know, dearest,’ Hugh whispered in her ear as he settled his bound hands around her again. ‘What this will amount to, I have no idea, but we have a new set of captors.’

What it amounted to was a look of amazement on the face of Sergeant Cadotte’s Lieutenant, a young man probably in his first command who stared at them, then turned on Cadotte, who had dismounted, along with his troop. After another furious look in their direction, the Lieutenant of Dragoons kneed his horse directly into the Sergeant, practically bowling him over.

‘He’s an ugly one,’ Hugh said into her ear. ‘He’s never learned what I learned in my first year as a Lieutenant: it’s your NCOs who keep you alive.’

Rubbing his arm, Cadotte kept his face impassive as he took the brunt of the Lieutenant’s sharp tongue. ‘I can’t follow what he is saying,’ Polly told Hugh. ‘It’s too fast for me.’

She felt Hugh’s sigh. ‘It’s what you probably think it is, dearest. He’s asking our Sergeant why in God’s name he did not kill us at São Jobim.’

Here it is
, she thought, surprisingly calm.
After weeks it has come to this. Hugh and I will not live to see the sun go down. I only hope to heaven they are quick.

‘Will we die now?’ she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. ‘We might. Polly Junot, you’ve been the best wife a man could hope for.’

His eyes still on the Sergeant, the Lieutenant shouted an order to Cadotte’s Corporal, who walked towards them and held out his arms for her. They had done this for weeks now. Hugh lifted his arms up and Polly swung her leg across the pommel and allowed herself to drop into the Corporal’s arms.

The Dragoon settled her on her feet, bending close to her this time to whisper, ‘Speak only English, Madame Junnit.’

She knew better than to look at him, especially since the Lieutenant was staring at her, his eyes angry, his hand patting his sabre. She stood still, eyes down, as the Corporal helped Hugh from the saddle. When he stood beside her, she whispered. ‘The Corporal told me to speak only English.’

‘Then trust him,’ Hugh replied. ‘I have only one feeble card to play. Tally-ho, Brandon.’

Putting himself between them, the Corporal took them by the arms and walked them towards the Lieutenant. He stopped, but the Lieutenant beckoned them closer. When they were standing close to his horse, he suddenly took his foot from the stirrup and shoved Hugh to the ground.

Polly wrenched herself from the Corporal’s grasp and threw herself down beside Hugh, who was shaking his head, as if to clear it. Grasping his arm with her bound hands, she tugged Hugh into a sitting position, as the Lieutenant danced his horse around them, almost stepping on her. She glanced at Sergeant Cadotte, noting the dismay on his face, and the two red spots that bloomed on his cheeks.

‘I don’t think that was called for, Lieutenant,’ Polly said, after taking a deep breath. She put her bound arms around Hugh and hugged him to her.

‘Parlez-vous francais?’
the officer asked, putting his foot back in the stirrup.

She shook her head. ‘Through an unfortunate confluence of events, we found ourselves prisoners.’

‘I speak French, Lieutenant,’ Hugh said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junnit, of the Second Division, Royal Marines. This is my wife, Polly Junnit.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you are more familiar with the French pronunciation—Junot.’

Whatever his failings as a Lieutenant, the young officer seemed to have heard of the name, Polly realised, as she watched the man’s face. In fact, he grabbed at his reins and stared at Hugh on the ground before him, then dismounted.

‘What did you say?’

Hugh repeated himself.

The Lieutenant shook his head in disbelief. ‘Junot?’

Hugh nodded. Polly held her breath as the Lieutenant, hands on his hips, glared at Hugh, who smiled back. ‘Where
is
my dear uncle Jean-Andoche?’

‘Sergeant Cadotte!’ the Lieutenant yelled. ‘Front and centre!’

Looking almost as amazed as the Lieutenant, Cadotte came quickly to attention, the red spots in his cheeks even more pronounced now. ‘Sir!’

The Lieutenant tapped Cadotte’s shoulder with the crop. ‘Why did you not tell me his name was Junot?’

‘Sir, I…’ Cadotte began, his voice mystified.

‘Help me up,’ Hugh told Polly. She did as he asked. He staggered and shook his head again. ‘Lieutenant…’

‘Soileau.’

‘Lieutenant Soileau, it is not your Sergeant’s fault. I introduced myself to him as Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junnit, which is how we pronounce the name in Scotland.’

‘Scotland?’ Soileau repeated. ‘Junnit? Good God. Are you a
spy
?’

‘Sir, I am a Royal Marine in his Majesty’s service,’ Hugh said, drawing himself up and managing to look so masterfully offended that Polly stared, too. ‘It happens there is a branch of the family in Scotland, and it is a long story. But tell me, how is my dear uncle? Is he with Clausel or Massena? Does he have his marshal’s baton yet?’

Good God, he is amazing
, Polly thought. She looked at the Lieutenant, who had the stunned look of an ox banged on the head and ready for slaughter. She watched as he took a moment to collect himself.

‘How can I be sure you are who you say you are?’

‘Ask my wife.’

The Lieutenant barely glanced at her. ‘Bah! She speaks no French, and from the way she is looking at you, she would probably tell me you were the second cousin of Our Lord Himself, if you wanted her to.’

‘She is a dear thing, isn’t she?’ Hugh said agreeably in English. ‘Polly, dear, perhaps the kind Lieutenant will untie your hands so you can reach up and unsnap my gorget.’ He continued in French, ‘My name is engraved on the other side. It’s also tattooed on the inside of my left leg.’