Marrying the Royal Marine (18 page)

When she did not think she could stand it another minute, Hugh came halfway down the slope and gestured to her. She wavered, not wanting to see the carnage on the road, but uneasy to be so far away from her love. Hugh won out, as she knew he always would, and she climbed the slope.

He grasped her arm to pull her on to the road, then held her tight, face against his chest. ‘We won’t be here long, Brandon. They have no plans to bury the dead or aid the wounded.’

‘Are we…?’ She couldn’t even think of the word. It had been too long.

‘Free? Indeed, we are. We are in the hands of General Francisco Espoz y Mina, himself.’ He pointed to a tall man, hatless, bending over what remained of Lieutenant Soileau. ‘He speaks only Basque, but his Lieutenant, Feliz Sarasa there, speaks Spanish and English.’

She only nodded, her eyes huge in her face, as she watched the killing ground. ‘Are they all dead?’

‘If they aren’t, they soon will be. The
guerilleros
aren’t inclined to give quarter. Seems a pity, almost, doesn’t it?’

She nodded, unable to take her eyes from the dead, who systematically were being stripped of what clothing might be useful in the guerilla cause, and then rolled unceremoniously down the slope she had just climbed.

Hugh’s grip tightened involuntarily. ‘Look you there. Sergeant Cadotte.’

She followed where he led, picking her way through the French until the hem of her skirt was crimson. She knelt when Hugh knelt by the side of the Sergeant, who lay with one leg bent in an odd direction, his hands bloody from clutching his stomach.

‘He’s barely alive,’ Hugh whispered. ‘What I would give to have your brother-in-law here, except I fear it would do no good.’ He put his hands on both sides of the Sergeant and leaned close until his lips were practically on Cadotte’s ear. ‘Sergeant, can you hear me?’

The dying man’s eyes opened finally. Polly could hardly bear to look at him, but when she did, she saw no fear, only weariness.

One of the
guerilleros
knelt beside Cadotte, too, his knife out. Hugh shot out his hand to stop the man. ‘No,
por favor
, no,’ Hugh said.
‘Este…este hombre…’
He stopped, his Spanish exhausted.

‘Su amigo?’
the
guerillero
asked, a look of incredulity on his face.

‘He saved our lives,’ Hugh said, leaning over Cadotte, shielding him with his own body. ‘Please leave him to me.’

The
guerillero
obviously didn’t understand, but shrugged and moved away, looking for enemies without friends. Hugh turned back to the Sergeant of Dragoons and carefully put his arm under Cadotte’s shoulders, raising him up slightly.

‘L’eau,’
he gasped.

Polly looked around. The Corporal lying nearby still had his canteen attached to his belt. Trying not to look at his ruined face, she cut the canteen with his knife and brought it back to Hugh. He tipped a little of its contents into Cadotte’s mouth. The water only dribbled out the corners and from the wound in his neck, but the Sergeant said
‘Merci,’
anyway.

She decided she could not be afraid of this dying man and tried to think what Laura would do. She took him by the hand and was rewarded with the slightest of pressure against her fingers. It could have been her imagination.

‘Sergeant, we owe you our lives, twice and three times over,’ Hugh said, his mouth close to Cadotte’s ear again. ‘I remember your wife’s name, but is there a direction besides just Angoulême where I can send her funds for your farm? Is there a parish?’

The Sergeant was silent. ‘I asked him too much,’ Hugh said in frustration and near tears himself.

‘Lalage.’ In spite of his vast pain, Cadotte seemed to caress the name. A long moment passed, then, ‘Sainte Agilbert.’ He smiled at Polly. ‘If…girl, name…Lalage.’

Polly raised his bloody hand to her cheek. ‘I promise.’

Cadotte nodded slightly and turned his head a fraction of an inch towards Hugh again. ‘Cows. A new fence.’ He sighed, as though thinking of the farm he would never see again, and a woman named Lalage. The sigh went on and on, and he died.

His face a mask of pain, Hugh gently released the Sergeant and pulled Polly close to him. ‘I wish I had not deceived him.’

‘Lalage is a beautiful name,’ Polly said through her tears. ‘We will use it some day, husband.’

He managed the ghost of a smile. ‘No one will understand.’

‘Do you care?’

He shook his head and kissed her temple. ‘When the war is over, we will mend a fence near Angoulême. There will be a lot of cattle for it to contain.’

Chapter Eighteen

T
hey were in the saddle again in less than an hour, riding at the front of the column now, next to a Lieutenant of Pakenham’s division, and dressed like one of Espoz y Mina’s ragtag army.

‘Wellington has sent a few of us into the hills to ride with the
guerilleros
, Colonel Junot, although I cannot for the life of me understand why,’ he said cheerfully as they rode along. ‘Good show this morning, eh?’

I wonder what this irritating Lieutenant would do if I suddenly knocked him out of his saddle?
Hugh asked himself, his mood sour and his mind dark.

He knew how Brandon felt. As they rode away from the bloody ground, she turned her face into his chest and sobbed, which only made the British Lieutenant look at her in amazement.

‘I say, Colonel,’ he whispered. ‘Doesn’t she understand that we have freed you from the French?’

Hugh returned some non-committal answer, knowing it was fruitless to explain to this ninny that in any war, especially one fought as long as this conflict, there comes a time where reasonable men and women have had enough. His own heart was heavy enough, thinking of Lalage Cadotte and her two sons whom she would continue to raise alone. He didn’t want to think how many sad little families there were in France, in Spain, in England.

That’s it
, he told himself, discarding every reason why the world would think theirs a foolish match.
Polly is my love.
He decided then that his home with Brandon would not be a sad one. He longed to take her to Kirkcudbright. He wanted to walk along the shoreline, watch the fishing boats, breathe deep of the fragrance of his late mother’s rose garden, and imagine the delight of a young child skipping along beside him. He knew he was duty-bound to the Marines until the war ended, at least, but there wasn’t any reason Brandon herself could not be his proxy, and settle into that lovely life he suddenly wanted for himself.

He looked down at her, wondering if she even knew how much she probably loved him, she who would have killed that Dragoon on the slope. If she did, something told him she would never allow herself to be settled so far away from him. He swallowed as his own heart raced uncomfortably at the idea of such a separation. Scotland could wait, as long as she was safely tucked into his quarters in Plymouth. Even then, he thought it would be hard to kiss her goodbye every morning and attend to his deskbound duties a building away. He wondered if a time would ever come when he would feel easy again without her in his line of sight.

They rode as hard as the French soldiers now lying slaughtered had ridden, in that last pass before the mountains gave way to the vast plain of León. At first, he listened with half an ear to the voluble Lieutenant who rode beside him, learning of Wellington’s triumphal entry into Madrid, then the need to move north and invest the stronghold of Burgos. There was hopeful talk of wintering in the Pyrenees and moving on France in the spring, rather than enduring another dreary retreat to Portugal and the safety offered by the lines of Torres Vedras and the Royal Navy close offshore.

In late afternoon, the
guerillero
leader the Lieutenant called Espoz y Mina stopped the column and rode with his English-speaking Subaltern along the column, falling in beside the Lieutenant. Through interpreters, he told them his army was taking the road east to Burgos.

‘
El jefe
wants you and your wife to continue with a smaller column to the Bay of Biscay,’ the interpreter said.

‘I won’t argue,’ Hugh told him. ‘After a month in the saddle, this Marine would like to clap his eyes on a fleet.’

‘You will, then,’ the interpreter said. ‘
Vayan con Dios.
I will leave you with another interpreter.’ He nodded to the Lieutenant on foot, who gave them a cheery wave and peeled off with the long column. The smaller unit watched until Espoz y Mina’s army turned on to what looked like no more than a cow trail, but pointed east to Burgos. The new interpreter, a long-faced Basque named Raul Etchemindy, rode beside them.

The smaller column continued north and turned slightly west, as it sought the relative safety of another mountain pass. ‘This area is still patrolled by the
crapaud
,’ Etchemindy said. ‘That will change, God willing, if your Wellington invests Burgos.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘If not, then we fight another year.’

The rains came again as the tired horses plodded into a village Hugh never would have seen from the plains below. Small and self-contained, he wondered if it had been guarding the pass since the earliest days of Roman conquest.

Brandon had said next to nothing through the long afternoon, and he was relieved to hand her off carefully when he halted his horse in the village square. His buttocks on fire, he dismounted with a groan and barely had time to blink before the horse was whisked away down a side street. He looked around. All the horses were gone now, hidden from French eyes.

He put his arm around Brandon, who leaned against him. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said.

Then it was their turn to be taken in hand by Etchemindy and whisked away into a small, fortress-like house. Chattering in an uninflected language he did not understand, two women pried Brandon from his side and led her away. He stood there a moment, indecisive and uneasy to have her gone, then turned to Etchemindy.

‘You are safe here,’ his Basque said in good, workaday English. ‘In the past four years, we have had English visitors. Sometimes they even bring us weapons, but never enough.’

‘Perhaps we can change that,’ Hugh said, interested.

‘Possibly. We are riding to Santander as soon as your wife is able,
señor
. The fleet has brought more weapons for the Spanish army, but we in the hills need an advocate.’

‘We can leave tomorrow, and I can help you,’ Hugh told him. ‘Admiral Sir Home Popham is my friend.’

Etchemindy clapped Hugh’s arm as his solemn expression gave way to a smile. ‘It is a doubly good thing, then, that we did not shoot you on sight, and wonder later who the man in the scarlet coat was!’

Etchemindy led him into a heavy-beamed room dark with the wood smoke of centuries, sat him down, and offered him a bowl of soup. Hugh felt his hunger pangs increase at the sight of meat floating in the thick broth. His host handed him a hunk of dark bread, which made a heavenly sop.

He ate too fast, knowing he would suffer for it by morning. He was reaching for more bread when he noticed one of the women hovering in the doorway, beckoning to him.
Brandon
, he thought, alarmed, and rose at once.

The woman whispered to Etchemindy, who turned to him. ‘
Señor
, follow my wife.’

Outside a closed door, the woman spoke at length to her husband, who gestured Hugh closer. ‘Your little lady is just sitting in the tub and keeps asking for you.’

Hugh let out the breath he had been holding, relieved. ‘It is this way, Señor Etchemindy. We have not been separated for some weeks now, and I confess I am feeling lost without her, too. With all due respect and thanks to your wife, may I go in and take care of things?’

Etchemindy nodded. ‘Goodnight. If we are not being presumptuous, we can find some fresh clothing in the village.’

‘Not presumptuous at all,’ Hugh said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

The wife whispered again to her husband, who laughed. ‘She says she is going to burn your clothing, no matter what you decide.’

‘Wise of her!’

When the Etchemindys had returned to their great room, Hugh knocked softly and lifted the latch. What he saw touched his heart. Just as Señora Etchemindy had said, Brandon sat in a tin tub, head down to one side, shoulders slumped. Her hair was tumbled around her shoulders, but it was dry. She just sat there, as though too stunned by the day’s events to move.

He just looked at her, seeing again how young she was, how utterly spent. She was a woman with the courage of a lion, who would have killed for him, but there she sat.
Do I sympathise?
he asked himself.
Do I tease her? Do I just tell her I love her?

‘Brandon.’

She gasped and looked around, and the relief in her eyes scored him right to the bone. He felt his own heart lift, and he knew he had been hungrier for the sight of her than that whole bowl of stew, as good as it had tasted. A room without Polly Brandon in it was a room not worth inhabiting. It was a simple truth, but deeper than a well.

He was at her side then, squatting by the tub, his arms around her awkwardly. She didn’t try to kiss him or say anything, but clung to him, her arms strong around his neck. She was a woman who would never fail him or tease him or play a missish card. She had a heart of oak, first requirement of a Royal Marine.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Brandon, I suppose you will have a thousand objections and try to stop me from sacrificing myself, but here it is. Brace yourself. I love you.’ It sounded so good to his ears he said it again. ‘I love you.’

Her voice was small. ‘Enough to marry me?’

‘More than enough. Laura Brittle knew. I knew it, even though I didn’t dare say anything. And then I tried to change my mind.’ He rested his cheek against hers. ‘Are you certain you want to splice yourself to a chowderhead?’

‘When I saw that Dragoon point his sidearm at you…’ she began. She sobbed and tightened her grip.

‘Is that a yes?’ he asked, cradling her in his arms and soaking his sleeves.

She nodded.

I daren’t be a watering pot, too
, he thought,
else she will change her mind.
He tickled her knee instead, content to be easy with the lovely body he already knew. ‘You know, Brandon, we will return to Plymouth and I will dutifully take my place at the conference table, probably never to roam the world again,’ he said into her ear. ‘No more adventuring in foreign waters. I shall leave that to the Lieutenants and Captains in my division. You’ll be stuck looking at my sorry visage over breakfast and dinner tables. I can’t live without the sight of you.’

‘I feel the same way,’ she whispered. ‘As for roaming the world again, you will, but you will be duty-bound to write me long letters!’

She was patient with him as he poured water over her head and worked soap through her tangled hair, digging with his fingernails until she sighed with pleasure. He washed her hair twice more, then devoted his attention to the rest of her.

It was easy to linger over her breasts, which had lost some of their heft, but none of their attraction. He shook his head at the sight of her ribs. Where had his plump Brandon gone? A few good meals would change that. He had no doubt that his cook in Plymouth would not rest until the Colonel’s lady was better fleshed.

She stood when he asked, and let him leisurely lather her hips and thighs and the space between. In fact, she began to breathe hard and clutch at his hair, as he bent to the task. She gasped, pressing his hand into her soft folds, making sure he didn’t miss a thing. His thoroughness was gentle. She clutched him convulsively, then kissed the top of his head after she found release.

He rinsed her off as she laughed softly, then wrapped a towel around her and moved her closer to the fireplace. As he dried her, he couldn’t help but think how it had all started on board the
Perseverance
, and her so seasick. He had cared for her then and he cared for her now.

‘Thank you for saving my life,’ he said into her bare shoulder, as she finished drying herself. ‘What an inadequate statement, Polly!’

‘I would do it again,’ she said, turning around.

He picked her up and deposited her in the bed. ‘You’re my hero, Brandon.’

She blushed becomingly, and held out her hand to him. ‘I’d rather just be your wife, and sing lullabies to our children. You can have the adventuring, Hugh. I don’t mind.’

‘That’s fair enough.’ He sat beside her on the bed. ‘I don’t mean to be squeamish, but your bathwater is daunting. Perhaps Señora Etchemindy can get her little Etchemindys—I saw them peeking around the stairwell—to empty this, move it into the kitchen, and fetch some clean water.’

He looked at her. She was asleep, her hand limp on her bare breast. He laughed softly to himself and covered her with the blanket.

Hugh took his time bathing in the kitchen, once the tub had been emptied and moved from the bedroom. Señora Etchemindy had retired for the night, so Hugh entertained his host with the whole story, from his impulsive leap into the
barco
at Vila Gaia to the ambush on the mountain pass. Etchemindy nodded and smoked his pipe.

‘That nun at São Jobim was no nun,’ Etchemindy said.

‘I didn’t think so,’ Hugh said, soaping up, ‘but she had been violated like so many of Portugal’s fair women.’ He looked at Etchemindy, soap in hand. ‘Some women withdrew, some descended into madness, some coped, and some, like Sister Maria, turned it into a great thirst for revenge.’

‘No different than men,’ Etchemindy commented. ‘Sister Maria Madelena passed on valuable information to your navy. She paid a high price.’

Hugh had nothing more than a towel to wrap around his middle when he padded back down the hall, because Señora Etchemindy had taken out everything except his gorget to the burn pit. Her husband assured him that the village wasn’t so destitute that it couldn’t come up with adequate fabric to hang on his frame, come morning.

The fire had worked its way down to hot coals and a red glow. He breathed in the fragrance of pine oil and pronounced it better than anything he had smelled in weeks. Autumn was well advanced now and the tang of wood smoke reminded him pleasantly of home.

Brandon was sitting up in bed.

‘You were supposed to be asleep,’ he told her as he discarded his towel and climbed in beside her.

Polly said nothing, but wrapped her arms and legs around him, working her way into his core. She kissed him with a ferocity that stunned him at first, then built a bonfire in his own body. All he could do was show her how much he loved her by easing himself as deep inside her as he could, all the while kissing her open mouth. They were bound up tight in each other arms.