Marrying the Royal Marine (17 page)

The Lieutenant’s mouth dropped open. ‘The Royal Marines require
that
?’

‘Lieutenant, were you never drunk, nineteen, and in a foreign port?’

Lieutenant Soileau shook his head, then gestured to Cadotte to untie Polly’s hands. He seemed unaware that the Sergeant’s troopers had gathered around, their tired faces lively with interest.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said in English, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of Hugh’s tunic. He bent down obligingly as she pulled out the gorget he had tucked inside his shirt and unsnapped it from the chain. She held it out to the Lieutenant, who did not take it from her, but read the inscription.

He read it again, aloud this time, and stood another moment in thought. ‘As we speak, your uncle is with our glorious Emperor and the
Grand Armée
in Russia,’ he said finally, his voice subdued, as though he did not believe his own ears.

‘What a shame for me!’ Hugh exclaimed. ‘I would like to have seen him and exchanged pleasantries. Since the war, family reunions have been impossible.’

Don’t press your luck, you scoundrel
, Polly thought, as she put the gorget back around his neck and tucked it inside his shirt.

Hugh’s lips were close to her ear. ‘I’m out of ideas,’ he whispered. ‘Brandon, this would be a good time to faint.’

With a sigh, she did exactly what he asked. A man couldn’t hope for a better wife.

Chapter Seventeen

S
he must have been convincing. After a suitable amount of time, she moaned and opened her eyes to find herself lying on a camp cot in a tent blessedly warm.

She had known Hugh would catch her on the way down, especially since he had engineered the faint, so never having lost consciousness, it was no surprise to see him kneeling beside the cot, his eyes full of concern, and something else that made her heart leap a little. She touched his face.

She hadn’t meant to unman him, but her touch filled his eyes with tears. ‘Lieutenant, can you send someone for a little water? Just a sip would be so kind,’ Hugh said. He took her hand in his, kissed her palm, and tucked it close to his chest. ‘You’re better than Siddons,’ he said in English. ‘Although I suppose after weeks in captivity, it ain’t hard to look wan.’

‘It’s easier than I would have thought,’ she murmured to him, putting her hand over his. ‘What is this supposed to get us?’

‘Some sympathy?’ he whispered back. ‘Heaven knows,
I
feel sorry for us.’

Lieutenant Soileau snapped out an order and in a moment Hugh was helping her into a sitting position for that sip of water. She took one sip, and with what she hoped was a die-away look on her face, begged her husband to let her rest again.

He did, with a perfectly straight face, and Lieutenant Soileau himself tucked a light blanket about her. He motioned to Hugh and the men withdrew for a brief conference. With a sigh, she resolved to let her husband worry about the pickle they were in, and resigned herself to sleep. At least they were still alive.

When she woke later, Hugh sat in a folding camp chair by her cot, head back, eyes closed. She knew he needed sleep, but she wanted information more, so she put her hand on his thigh and squeezed it. His eyes opened in an instant. He looked wildly around the tent first, as though wondering where he was, then smiled down at her.

‘Do we live to fight another day?’

‘We do, Polly, dear,’ he told her. ‘I fear, though, that our good Sergeant Cadotte had to endure a blistering scold for not killing us at São Jobim. I couldn’t hear the whole thing, but Cadotte may have even been busted down to Corporal.’

‘I
am
sorry for that,’ Polly said. ‘I should sit up, but for the life of me, I don’t want to.’

‘Then don’t. Lieutenant Soileau graciously consented to your remaining in his tent tonight. He even promised some food, but don’t expect much.’ He grew serious immediately. ‘I think Lieutenant Soileau is taking us along with his force to General Clausel, who had withdrawn to Burgos, where our own dear Wellington is laying him siege. Who knows what will happen then, except that I am so glad Cousin—or Uncle—Junot is somewhere in Russia.’

‘You don’t even know if he is a relative, do you?’ she asked.

‘Haven’t the slightest,’ Hugh replied cheerfully.

‘What will Clausel do with us?’

‘Probably pass us off to someone else, as Lieutenant Soileau is eager to do.’ He hesitated then. Polly knew him well enough to know something else was percolating in his fertile brain. ‘I can’t gild this, my darling, but I rather think the
guerilleros
who have been dogging our steps will make their move tomorrow. Clausel might be the least of our worries.’

She mulled over that bad news during dinner, which was tough beef in a wine sauce, bread pudding made of hardtack, but soaked in rum sauce with raisins, and excellent port. By the time the meal was over—Lieutenant Soileau had shared it with them—all she wanted to do was sleep.

Lieutenant Soileau had no intention of allowing Hugh to run tame in his tent for the night. So he told Hugh, who translated for her. ‘You already know. He is taking me to the detention tent for another of our typical nights in the hands of our enemies, Brandon. I’m sorry.’

She was powerless against the dread of having Hugh Junot gone from her sight. ‘Tell Lieutenant Soileau I will go with you.’

The detention tent was no worse than other nights on the trail from São Jobim to this nameless spot in the foothills, and far better than the granary. While Lieutenant Soileau looked askance, Hugh made himself comfortable against a meal sack, obligingly held out his hands to be bound, then patted his thigh. Ignoring the Lieutenant, who refused to bind her hands, Polly sat down beside Hugh and rested her head on his leg, tugging the extra blanket around her. She was asleep in minutes, happy to be where she was.

They were up before daylight, prodded by the sentry, who grudgingly loosened Hugh’s bonds so he could attend to his private business and shooed Polly from the tent while he did so. Lieutenant Soileau’s blanket around her, she waited serenely in the mist, watching the Dragoons at their breakfast fires. Sergeant Cadotte and his men squatted by their own fires, and she noted with some relief, at least, that the Sergeant seemed to have retained all his rank.

As she stood there, Cadotte brought her a tin cup of what turned out to be chicken broth. She drank it gratefully, surprised there had been a chicken still on the loose in this picked-over terrain. The fowl must have been as determined to live as the Junnits.

‘I am sorry we got you in trouble, Sergeant,’ she said in French, after looking around to make sure Lieutenant Soileau was not in sight.

He shook his head. ‘Junot. Junnit. Good Christ, woman!’ Cadotte looked around, too. ‘I could not have killed you. It never was the bribe your husband so generously offered, and you may tell him that.’

‘Why, then?’ she asked, curious.

‘That nun was a spy and I did my duty,’ he told her. ‘You, however, were in the wrong place at the wrong time. God help me, but I don’t customarily make war on women.’ He looked away, as if contemplating his own family. ‘Heartless as I was at Sâo Jobim, God forgive me.’

She handed back the cup. He took hold of it, but did not take it from her. His fingers touched hers. ‘Be careful today. I’ll watch you two if I can.’

You’re my enemy
, she thought, grateful for Cadotte.
We owe you so much. ‘Merci,’
was all she said.

Cadotte was obviously one of the smaller cogs in the battalion, but he still managed to secure the same horse for them. She noticed he did everything quickly, before Lieutenant Soileau had the opportunity to impose his own regulations. Polly held her hands out to be bound, but Cadotte shook his head. ‘Not this time, Madame Junot. Keep your hands low in your lap, and I do not think the Lieutenant will notice. Be watchful and think quickly.’

When he touched his finger to his helmet and turned away, Polly twisted around to look at Hugh, who was watching the Sergeant with his own troubled expression. ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.

‘I am, too,’ Hugh murmured back. ‘Keep your eyes on Cadotte. He’ll help us, if he can.’

The column rode into a misty morning, the forest abnormally quiet of birdsong. Although admonished to silence by Lieutenant Soileau, there was no way to totally quieten the creak of harness, clink of mess kit, or the sharp strike of horseshoe against stone. Polly strained for the sound of other horses and men riding on their periphery, but she heard nothing.

The mist gave way to a morning as beautiful as any she had ever seen, the air crisp and the landscape scrubbed clean by the rain that had fallen in the night. They continued their downward path until Polly saw open ground in the distance.

‘The plains of León,’ Hugh said, and there was no mistaking the relief in his voice. ‘I believe we are less than eighty miles from the Bay of Biscay.’

It might as well be a million miles
, she thought. Hugh seemed to read her mind. ‘Now we will turn east towards Burgos, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Ah, well.’

Lieutenant Soileau called a rest. When they were in the saddle again, Sergeant Cadotte stepped his horse out of the line and waited a moment until they were beside him.

‘This is the last pass to the plains, Colonel,’ he said, keeping his voice soft and looking straight ahead, ignoring them. She barely saw his hands move as he placed a knife in her lap. ‘Watch for an opportunity and take it.
Bon chance.
’ He touched spurs to his mount and moved up into the line, in front of his Corporal.

Polly could not stop the fear that seemed to ripple down her spine. She took the knife, and cut through Hugh’s bonds, as he continued to envelop her in his grasp, his hands in front of her. ‘Don’t drop the knife,’ he told her. ‘Do what I tell you when the moment comes.’

It was then that she heard other horses and riders, but they were above them in the pass. Some of the Dragoons were looking up, too, and gesturing. It was just a man here and a man there, standing, observing, dressed in brown to blend in with the dry plains of León. When the column turned, she saw Lieutenant Soileau in the vanguard, his head inclined towards one of his Sergeants, who pointed with some emphasis.

‘Lieutenant Soileau is too green for this assignment,’ Hugh whispered. ‘He is in over his head. He’s ignoring his Sergeants. Brandon, it’s going to be bad!’

He grasped her around the waist then, his hand tight. At a word from Cadotte, who rode ahead, the Corporal loosed the rope that bound his horse to theirs. Polly snatched the rope, leaning forwards across the horse’s neck.

When she tried to rise, Hugh pushed her down again into the animal’s mane, and leaned over her. He edged off the path just as the noonday calm erupted in screams and gunfire. ‘Get off and slide down the embankment,’ Hugh ordered, loosing his grip on her and lifting her leg over the pommel. ‘Don’t look back!’

She did as he said, as the
guerilleros
seemed to rise like rapid-growing plants from the hillside, and rain down fire. She stood at the side of the road, rooted there in her fear, as the Corporal suddenly slapped his ear, slumped across his horse’s neck, then plopped in a heap at her feet, a bullet drilled through his brain.

Polly needed no other encouragement. She slid down the slope, rolling and scrambling up and falling again as the column dissolved in gunfire. Horses screamed and pushed against each other as everyone tried to take cover. Other Dragoons had dismounted, true to their training, and were firing now from positions along the embankment she had slid down.

Scarcely breathing, she watched for Hugh through the growing smoke of the muskets, realising with an ache that he had not been so far from her side in weeks. She began to cautiously climb up the embankment, looking for him. Relief coursed through every fibre of her body as she saw a scarlet tunic and then Hugh as he slid off his horse and tried to follow her down the slope. As she watched in horror, one of the Dragoons pulled out his sidearm and aimed it right at Hugh.

‘Hugh!’ she shrieked. He had no weapon. She raced up the slope, blotting everything from her mind except Hugh. It wasn’t so far, and she suddenly felt strong, despite days of starvation, cold rain, and despair. Suddenly, she knew what it felt like to risk everything for what she loved the most. She understood what Sister Maria Madelena had tried to tell her at São Jobim.

As puny as it was, the Dragoon hadn’t expected an attack from the rear. Polly scrambled to her feet and lunged for the horsehair tassel hanging from the man’s helmet, jerking it with all her might. It earned her a clout on the shoulder, but he fell backwards, tried to struggle to his feet, then was stopped for ever by a bullet from a musket—friend or foe she had no idea.

Polly sobbed out loud, then shrieked as Hugh grabbed her around the waist and ran down the slope. Not until he found a fallen tree and pulled her behind it did he release his grip.

They lay in a jumble, arms around each other, until the firing stopped. She wanted to say something, but she knew it would only come out as babble, so she was silent, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow, and the tingling feeling leave her arms and legs until she felt as heavy as the log they crouched behind.

‘I told you to go down that slope and not look back,’ Hugh said finally.

‘He came between me and you,’ she said, touching his face as though she had never thought to do that again.

He didn’t say anything more, but gathered her closer. They lay there, listening, until the voices above them were Spanish instead of French.

‘Do you know any Spanish?’ Hugh asked.

‘Not much. Do you?’

‘Precious little.’ He sat up cautiously. ‘It galls this Scot, but all I can remember is
Ingleses.
I have to tell them I am English.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘You are not!’ He took her chin in his hand and gave it a little shake. ‘And don’t give me that mulish look, Madame Junot! Stay here. I won’t ask you twice.’

He sat on the fallen log, brushing futilely at his scarlet tunic, which was torn, stained, and bloody. Most of the gilt buttons hung by threads. He pulled his gorget out of the front of his tunic and settled it where it belonged. He glanced at Polly.

‘You’re probably going to tell me I’m a dandy and I don’t smell very good, either,’ he muttered.

‘You certainly don’t,’ she teased, then reached for him. ‘Please be careful, my love. My love,’ she repeated, enjoying the way it rolled over her tongue.

‘Your love,’ he mused. ‘Brandon, I think—no, I know—your sister wanted you to wait a few years and then fall in love with a solicitor, or maybe a ship builder.’

‘Probably,’ she replied agreeably, since he was going to be a dunce. ‘I will be a sad disappointment to them, but not to me. I never wanted to harm anyone, but Boney gave me no choice. It’s my fight, too.’

He looked at her in admiration, then gently pushed her spectacles higher up on her nose. ‘I still can’t believe they are not broken.’ He started up the hill, moving deliberately, his hands up, calling
‘Ingleses’
every few feet until he was on the road again. Polly held her breath, fearing a volley of rifle fire, but the only sounds she heard were weapons being thrown on to a pile and the groans of the wounded, followed by shrieks.
Dear God, they are killing the wounded
, she thought.
What kind of men are these?