by Mary Balogh
It was nerve-racking, to say the very least. She had allowed almost three weeks to pass. Not quite three, as she had planned. The occasion of Colonel Leroux’s reception had seemed just too suitable an occasion. But she had heard nothing from Duarte—had she expected to? There was no knowing if he was close or even if he was on his way. There was no knowing if he would succeed in getting inside Salamanca, not to mention all the rest of it.
The plan that had seemed so logical to her when she was still in Portugal now seemed dangerous and chancy in the extreme. And the trouble was that if something went awry, if Duarte never came, then it would be Robert who would suffer. And if Duarte came and then was caught . . . But she dared not let her thoughts move along those lines.
War was a dangerous business, she reminded herself, and she was an active player in it for the moment. She could only move ahead now and hope that all would work out as she had planned it.
And so she sent her letter off to Robert, guessing that he would be on the colonel’s guest list. There was a great dearth of British prisoners in Salamanca. Everyone, it seemed, vied with everyone else to show him the most courtesy. He was invited everywhere, though she had noticed that he had not accepted even half his invitations during the past few weeks. Ever since she had drawn him into kissing her that way . . .
Hence the letter. She could not take the chance that he would not go. And yet she was in agonies of doubt and anxiety all during the day of the reception, even though she had pondered long over her letter in order to phrase it in the way most designed to make his coming inevitable. She knew he would come. She knew him so well, just as if she were privy to his thoughts. She always knew what he was thinking, which was a stupid idea, she admitted when she put it into words in her own mind.
But she knew he would come. And yet there was that niggling doubt. What if he did not? What if, on this occasion above all others, he did not come? Well, then, she told herself, she would have to organize something for the next day. Or the next. She had told Duarte three weeks, and it was not quite three weeks yet. She had never been one to be ruled by anxieties. She would not give in to them now.
And so it was a relaxed and smiling and vivid marquesa—dressed in a gown of startling pink—who arrived at the house where the colonel was lodged and allowed him to take both her hands in his and raise them one at a time to his lips. It was possible to endure such contact, she had found, if she imagined his face dead, as it would be when she was finished with him.
“Jeanne,” he murmured. “More beautiful than ever. Do I say that every time I see you?”
She looked upward, thinking. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Is it always true, Marcel? Or is it just flattery?”
“How can you ask?” he said, and his eyes assumed that intense look that had been warning her for a few weeks past that the crisis was coming, that soon flirtation would no longer hold him at arm’s length. Perhaps that was why she had waited just a little less than three weeks. “If you will just permit it, Jeanne, I will show you just how little my words are flattery.” He squeezed her hands tightly.
She laughed lightly and withdrew her hands from his. “Marcel,” she said archly, “you have guests to entertain.” And she looked casually about, smiling at male faces turned her way, and locating Captain Blake where she had fully expected to see him—in the most shadowed corner of the room. She made no sign, but turned her eyes away from him.
She sat beside the colonel at dinner and ate her way through the meal, each mouthful apparently of the taste and consistency of cardboard, and chattered gaily to the colonel on one side and General Forget on the other and to the gentlemen and one lady across the table from her.
After dinner she allowed herself to be escorted to the reception rooms and spent a whole hour there, at first with the colonel and then without him, circulating among the guests, who were predominantly, as always, officers of the French army. She talked and laughed and flirted—and stayed away from Captain Blake, who made no move to approach her himself.
And then she drew a few steadying breaths, her smile firmly in place, and crossed the room to lay a hand on Colonel Leroux’s sleeve.
“Jeanne.” He turned to her with a smile. “I thought I had been abandoned in favor of my myriad rivals.”
“Marcel,” she said, glancing at his companions, “a word with you, please.”
He excused himself and moved off a short distance with her. “Is something wrong?” he asked her.
“No.” She smiled tremulously. “I do not think so. Just foolishness. I seem to have misplaced a ring, though I am sure it is quite safe. It is just that I cannot stop thinking about it. It was a betrothal ring given me by Luis. It is very valuable.”
He took her by the arm and looked down at her in some concern.
“I was wearing it when I left my aunt’s,” she said. “I know I was. I can remember twisting it around and around, as I have a habit of doing. I remember pushing my hands into the pockets of my cloak so that I would stop doing so. After that I cannot remember. I am sure the ring must be in my cloak pocket.”
“I shall send a servant upstairs without delay,” he said.
“I would feel so foolish if anyone else knew I had done anything so careless,” she said. “It is priceless, Marcel. Would you . . . ? I mean, would it be too much trouble to you . . . ?”
“To look myself?” he asked. “Of course not, Jeanne. You know I would do anything to ensure your peace of mind. The cloak is pink to match your gown? Why do you not come with me?”
But she drew back. “It would be noticed,” she said. “Our leaving together and perhaps being away for some time. And perhaps the ring is not in my cloak pocket. Perhaps it fell off in the carriage.”
“I shall look there too,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You stay here, Jeanne, and enjoy yourself. I shall find it, never fear. I shall be back before you know it.”
But not too soon, she hoped as he hurried from the room. He would find the ring between two cushions in the carriage. But the carriage door was locked. He would have to find her coachman.
As soon as he was out of sight, she hurried to the door, where there were two sergeants on duty, one on each side. She spoke to the larger of the two.
“When Colonel Leroux returns,” she said, “you will tell him, if you please, to find me immediately. It is most important that he do so.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The sergeant stood to attention.
“And you are to come with him,” she said. “And your companion. Both of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” both men said, and their eyes met over her head.
“The soldier on duty at the main door,” she said, glancing quickly across the hallway. “He is to accompany you. I will have need of all three of you.”
She swept back into the reception room without waiting for a reply, and looked about her. Her heart felt as if it had leapt into her throat and was beating there at double time. She smiled vaguely at a major with large mustaches who was making his way toward her, and hurried across the room until she reached the corner. Robert was talking with a fellow captain. She smiled sweetly.
“Robert,” she said, touching his arm, “I need to speak with you. Excuse us, Captain?”
He came with her without a word and without protest. That was a relief at least. There was so little time. She led him from the room and across the hall to a room that she knew to be an office. She took a candle from a table as she passed and took it inside the room with her.
“Close the door,” she instructed him, and he obeyed, his eyes on her the whole while.
She looked quickly about as she set the candle down on the mantelpiece. A large table strewn with papers. An oak desk. Both with sharp corners. A great deal of space in the center of the room.
And she looked at him, standing just inside the door, his legs slightly apart, his hands clasp
ed behind him. Dearly familiar in his shabby green coat with the shining sword in its scabbard at his side. Only his boots were new and shining from the same care he gave his weapons. His face was stern, unsmiling. His hair had grown longer since his captivity and curled enticingly over his collar.
Her heart turned over and she knew again a truth that she had not yet put into words. She could not afford to do so. She had a job to do. And this was the most difficult, the most heartrending part of all. She could not do it, she thought in a flash. But he was so unhappy, so eager to be back with his men, she thought immediately after. And Arthur had asked her to try to effect his freedom if she possibly could.
Oh, yes, she possibly could.
She smiled slowly at him. “Robert,” she said softly, “you have been avoiding me.”
“You had something very urgent to tell me,” he said without moving. “What is it, Joana? How may I be of assistance to you? Or was it a hoax? Am I still to be made to fall in love with you? You become tedious. If it is only that, then I must beg to be excused without more ado.”
No, it would not work that way. Or perhaps it would. She had great confidence in her charms, even with Captain Robert Blake. But it would take too long. Clearly he had his heart set like steel against her. She turned immediately to her second plan.
Her smile faded, she looked at him with haunted eyes, and her lower lip trembled. “Robert,” she said, her voice matching her lip, “you must help me. Oh, I know you hate me, and I know I deserve your hatred ten times over, but there is no one else who can help. I have no one else to turn to.”
His eyes grew more hostile and she felt a small twinge of fear in her stomach. Fear that she would run out of time.
“I am no spy,” she said. “And I had no intention of ruining your plans, Robert, and betraying your country. I merely answered General Valéry’s questions truthfully, not realizing they were a trap, and then he brought you into the room and I realized it. And I reacted as I always do when confused. I pretended that I thought it all amusing. I did not feel that way, Robert. I am half-English. And my husband was Portuguese.” Her voice faltered. “You are English.”
“My God.” She could see his face harden with anger, but he took several steps forward. That was something at least. “Do you expect me to believe such . . . idiocy? Do you think you can make of every man a dupe? Do you expect intelligence to fly out of the brain as infatuation flies in? What is your game, Joana? Why have you brought me here? I do not like being so noticeably absent from the company with you.”
“Why not?” She touched his chest lightly with one hand and felt his muscles contract. “Don’t you care for me at all, Robert? Not even one little bit?”
“You know what interest I have in you,” he said. “All my other feelings are scorn, Joana. And dislike. And I will not allow my body to rule my head merely because you are a beautiful woman and have the gift of enticing men more than any other woman I have known. There are many other women whom I can lust after and from whom I can get more satisfaction. There was no urgent matter, then?”
She swallowed and looked into his eyes with all her soul—her real soul, with no mask whatsoever. She was that desperate.
“I love you,” she whispered to him, and the tears formed in her eyes. “I know you will not believe me. I know I am merely opening myself to further scorn. But it is true. I love you.”
He looked at her with an incredulity that wounded cruelly, since there was no mask for it to bounce off. “Christ!” he said. “They used to burn people like you, you know. Witches. She-devils.”
She set her forehead against his chest and breathed in the warmth and the smell of him. And she raised her head and looked up at him with her unmasked eyes.
“Joana.” He gripped her arms in a grasp that was immediately painful. “Stop this immediately. God, woman, stop it.”
She took one half-step forward so that she touched him from knees to shoulders. She spread both hands on his chest. “Take me away from here,” she pleaded. “When you go, let me come too. I don’t want to live here without you.” The door was opening behind his back. “Robert,” she whispered.
“God,” he said, and she could see that he was so furiously angry that he had not even heard the opening of the door, “you are like a fever in my blood, Joana.”
“Let me go,” she said, her voice trembling again. “You tricked me into coming here, did you not? There is no sick lady here. Do you mean to ravish me? I shall scream and then there will be dreadful scandal. Let me go, Robert.” And she began to struggle wildly against the iron bands of his hands, noting at the same time the blank look of surprise and incomprehension in his eyes.
But neither the blankness nor the incomprehension lasted long. And she had been quite right to have estimated that it would need four men, she thought as she stood quietly beside the desk, dying a little with each blow. He easily fought off both Colonel Leroux and the larger of the sergeants and very possibly would have come out on top of a fight against three of them. But after several minutes of silent, desperate fighting, he was finally overpowered and held by all three of the guards whose presence she had demanded, while the colonel pounded him at leisure with his fists.
Captain Blake did not lose consciousness. Nor did he remove his eyes from those of his adversary even when they became swollen and almost sightless. He made no sound except for grunts when fists landed in his stomach.
Joana felt as if every blow had landed on her. They would kill him. They would not be content until they had killed him.
“Marcel,” she said. “Enough. Please.”
Colonel Leroux stopped immediately and turned toward her. “Jeanne, my apologies,” he said. “You should have left the room. This is no sight for a lady.”
She was being regarded steadily from two bloodshot eyes that were hardly even visible between the swollen folds of flesh about them. She forced herself to look back briefly. The three soldiers still held him fast.
“I believed him,” she said. “He said there was a lady in here fainting and that I should come. I was so very foolish.”
The colonel nodded at one of the sergeants, who was unbuckling the captain’s sword belt.
“He will not bother you again, Jeanne,” Colonel Leroux said. “I have a special dungeon in mind for our comrade here, one that I normally reserve for our friends the Spaniards. We will see if that will cool your ardor, Captain Blake.”
He said nothing, but only continued to look at Joana. She could not bring herself to look back, but felt his eyes burning into her conscience.
“His parole, Marcel,” she said.
“He has broken parole,” the colonel said harshly. He jerked a thumb at the soldiers in a gesture that was so familiar to Joana’s nightmares that she felt all the blood drain from her head. “Take him away. Try to avoid upsetting my guests with the sight of him. I shall be with you in a few minutes.”
“Oh, dear,” Joana said, her hand reaching for the edge of the desk, “I do believe I am going to faint.”
It was a good act, she realized afterward. Except that it had not been an act at all.
16
HE had been there for five days, perhaps longer. It was hard to gauge time when there was no daylight. All he could assume was that during the long, long stretches of time when no one came near him, it must be night, and that during the stretches when he was brought meager scraps of food and foul-tasting water and when the brutes came to rough him up, it must be day. Five days, then. Perhaps six.
He was no longer bound by his parole. The thought brought him wry amusement. There had been times when he had wished for just such a situation, when he had wished that he could turn his mind and his energy to escape. Escape! It would be hard indeed to escape from an underground stone dungeon whose single solid door was never opened—except when the ruffians came, two to act guard and three to work him over.
/> It must be night, Captain Blake thought, or the beginning of night. Some bread had been thrust between the bars of the door grille and dropped to the filthy floor perhaps two hours before, and he knew that long hours would pass before he could expect more. He forced himself to relax on the bare board that was his bed. Long years as a soldier had taught him to endure almost any discomfort and to sleep under almost any conditions. He needed rest. Then rest he would.
He stretched out his sore and aching legs, spread one hand over bruised and perhaps cracked ribs, and laid the back of the other arm over swollen and bruised eyes. He ran his tongue over lips that were swollen and cut inside. Fortunately—very fortunately—none of his teeth had been broken . . . yet. The rest would heal—perhaps, unless Colonel Leroux planned to kill him or have him killed. The colonel had appeared in person only that first night, when he had carried on where he had left off in his house, beating the captain insensible.
At least, Captain Blake thought, he had not been tortured. Beyond the beatings, that was. He did not consider those torture. He had been beaten before. There had been fights that he had lost, though not many of them in recent years, since his weight had caught up to his height and since he had been commissioned to the ranks of the officers.
He tried to sleep. The board was hard. He was used to the hard ground. It was cold. He was used to the cold. He ached all over. He was used to pain. He had been duped by her, made into the ultimate idiot. Christ, she had made a fool of him. For all his apparent incredulity, he had felt himself beginning to drown in the sincerity of her eyes. Sincerity!
I love you.
He turned his head to one side and winced. Lord God! I love you. She had done it to him twice, once when he was seventeen and could be excused for falling for it, and now when he was turned twenty-eight and had thought himself worldly-wise. Not that he had quite fallen for it this time, but even so . . . Even so, he had been hankering after her—even knowing who and what she was.
She was a dangerous woman, one who used her feminine charms with as deadly intent as a man might use his sword.