by Mary Balogh
And yet he was reluctant too. Part of him did not want these weeks to end. The next day he would seek out Lord Wellington and turn Joana over to him. His duty would be done at that point. What happened to her would not be his concern. He could leave her and forget about her.
Forget about her! That was one thing he would never do, he knew. She had warned him that they could not become lovers without his feelings becoming involved, and she was right, of course. His feelings had become very much involved. For, her physical attractions aside—and they were many—there was Joana herself, flirtatious, teasing, untruthful, deceitful, occasionally foul-tongued, charming, smiling, and always stimulating. He had never known anyone quite like her. There was no one quite like her.
He found her irritating beyond bearing more often than not. He lashed her with his anger almost every single day, and she lashed back just as viciously and even more so. When Joana wanted to wound, she went straight for the jugular vein. And he found her enchanting almost beyond bearing too. It could be put simply into words, though he avoided the words in his mind. He wanted to love her and knew that he never could. He hated her too much, despised her too much.
And so he loved her without ever putting his feelings into words even in his mind. For once he verbalized them, then he must despise himself too. He would be no better than all the other men who had fallen under her spell. Worse. Those other men did not know her for what she was.
He dreaded the next day, when he must part with her forever. No more days of quarrels and nights of love. Only memories. And he knew that the memories would haunt him for a long, long time—if he had a long time to live. There was to be a major pitched battle within weeks.
And then came the news with returning scouts just the day before they would have reached the army. Massena and his forces were approaching, not by the main road along the Mondego toward the awaiting army, but by the narrow and incredibly difficult trail to the north, leading through Viseu. It could not have been planned that way surely, one scout with whom Captain Blake had a former acquaintance said. They had to be mad to come that way with a huge army and all the heavy guns and baggage. Their progress was considerably slowed and their susceptibility to attack by the Ordenanza increased tenfold. It had to have been an accident.
But that was the way they were coming. Lord Wellington would have to be informed so that he could move his position and find a new one in which to meet the French when they came up. And the people farther north who had not evacuated their homes must be warned to do so and persuaded to leave nothing behind.
It was great news. But there was no further thought to making straight for the army. Captain Blake had work to do farther north. And since he could not spare a day in which to take Joana to headquarters, then she must come with him. Or so he persuaded himself.
“Christ,” he said. “If they push onward from Viseu, they will pass through Mortagoa.”
She was very pale, he saw when he looked at her. Perhaps the reality of the situation was coming home to her. Her countrymen were coming closer, and if Wellington was quick enough, they would meet him on ground favorable to him. Thousands of them would die.
“Mortagoa?” she said.
“Many of Duarte Ribeiro’s band live there,” he said. “Their women and children are there now. Including his own.”
“Then they must be warned,” she said. “We will warn them, Robert?”
“We will cut straight north,” he said, “and work our way gradually westward. We will warn them if Ribeiro and his men have not already done so.”
“What are we waiting for, then?” she said.
He looked at her with reluctant admiration. “You thought all this traveling was almost over,” he said. “Doubtless Wellington will have you sent directly to Lisbon and perhaps on to England once I turn you over to him. At least you will be comfortable then, Joana, and safe. Are you sorry this has happened?”
“Robert,” she said, “you do not know how excruciatingly tedious comfortable living can be. There is nothing to do but sleep and eat and go to parties. And flirt for excitement. I am not sorry that our adventure is to be extended.”
He did not believe a great deal of what she said. But he did believe those words. Amazingly she had seemed to thrive on the hard living they had done in the past several weeks. She had never once complained about heat or dust or dirt or sweat—or blisters. She had had one on the other foot after the first was almost healed, and had threatened him with a long and sharp twig and swished it wickedly in the direction of his arm when she had thought that he was going to carry her again.
“Besides,” she said now, smiling dazzlingly at him, “I have not yet had enough pleasure from your body, Robert. It is such a wonderful body.”
For all her lady’s upbringing, she seemed to feel no embarrassment at all at the outrageous things she frequently said to him. Sometimes he was thankful that he was past the age of blushes. And yet her words always drew a powerful—though quite private—response from him too.
No, he had not had enough of her either. He would never have enough of her. He quelled the thought.
“North we go, then,” he said.
North into the greatest danger and the deepest emotional experience they had yet encountered together.
22
MARSHAL Ney entered Viseu on September 18 after a laborious march over a stony, narrow, and precipitous track that had strung out the army into a dangerously thin line. The guns, supplies, and horses had fallen behind the infantry, and two thousand militiamen of the Ordenanza almost succeeded in capturing all the heavy guns. They narrowly failed, but they took a hundred prisoners and they harassed an already suffering French army almost beyond endurance.
Viseu was deserted when the French entered it. Its inhabitants had put up little resistance to the persuasions to leave. The vanguard of the French army was very close, and those people had not expected invasion. They were frightened by the prospect.
Captain Blake and Joana lay flat on their stomachs on top of a wooded hill to the west of Viseu, watching its occupation by the French. They had seen Joana’s “aunt” and Matilda on their way to Coimbra earlier in the day. Matilda had been disapproving and tight-lipped, her aunt openmouthed with shock at the sight of Joana. But she had flatly refused to accompany them. Not that she would have been allowed to, of course. But while they had argued with her, Captain Blake had stood by and said nothing.
They should have moved farther away from Viseu. But they both felt a strange reluctance to do so.
“Part of my life is caught up in this place,” she said. “And yours too, Robert. If you had not been ordered to escort me here, we would never have met. Do you wish we had never met?”
“Yes,” he said.
She turned over onto her side and looked up at him. “Do you? Why?”
He turned his head and his blue eyes gazed into hers. “The answers should be obvious,” he said. “Do you want me to spell them out? Do you want to hear insults when I am not even angry?”
She smiled at him. “I believe it is because you have fallen in love with me and feel that it is the wrong thing to have done,” she said. “Am I not right?”
“Joana,” he said, “will you never give up on that idea? Do you think yourself so irresistible even to someone who knows you? And what about me? Am I irresistible too? Have you fallen in love with me?”
She smiled slowly. “A lady never tells,” she said.
He grinned at her, an expression that was so rare with him that it could always succeed in turning her weak at the knees. “Which happens to be one of the greatest whoppers you have ever told, Joana,” he said. “You are not shy about telling everything else.”
She laughed. “But I am not sorry that I made that tedious journey to Lisbon just to meet you,” she said. “And I am not sorry that we traveled back together or that I agreed to let Arthur send me af
ter you to Salamanca. And I am not sorry that I maneuvered your escape and mine or that we have had these weeks together. I am not sorry, Robert. There will be many pleasant memories.”
His grin held. “You came to Lisbon to meet me?” he said. “All the way from Viseu. I am flattered, ma’am. I did not realize that my fame had spread so far.”
“And you do not believe a word,” she said. “But you will. And then you will feel foolish. And then I think your feelings for me will come flooding up when you realize that I am not what you think me.”
His grin had faded to a smile. “And Duarte Ribeiro is still your brother?” he asked.
“Half-brother,” she said. “Yes, he still is and doubtless always will be.”
“And yet,” he said, “you did not know that his wife and child were at Mortagoa? The place name meant nothing to you when I mentioned it.”
“She is not his wife—yet,” she said. “And it delights me to see you plagued by doubts, Robert. Of course I knew they were there.”
“What is her name?” he asked.
She reached out to touch a finger to his nose. “You probably know it,” she said. “You do not need me to tell you.”
“Meaning that you do not know?” he asked. “Or is it that you are still teasing me with doubts?”
“That is for you to decide,” she said.
He shook his head. “I have no doubts, Joana,” he said. “You lose.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “and perhaps not.” She rolled onto her stomach again and looked down onto the distant roofs and church spires. Blue-coated soldiers by the thousand were camped to the east of the city. “It feels dreadfully real, does it not? The French here and the British not many miles behind us, waiting. Will it be soon, Robert? Tomorrow?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Ney will wait here for the rest of the army and the guns to come up and then they will have to try to scout ahead and make plans. A week at least.” He looked across at her. “Does it excite you to see your countrymen so close?”
“And freedom?” she said. “I don’t think I particularly like the thought of my father’s people fighting my mother’s. I grew up with my father and loved him. I still do. And I returned to France with him after our exile in England. He did not like the new order and was happy enough to be sent away on an embassy. But he loves his country nevertheless. I do not remember my mother. I was taken from her at a very young age. I think she and my father had a dreadful quarrel and he did not take her from Portugal when he and I left. But I feel I know her nevertheless. Miguel and Duarte and Maria told me a great deal about her.”
He turned his head sharply to look at her. Her chin was resting on her hands and she was staring sightlessly down at Viseu and the French army encamped before it.
“Miguel?” he said. “Maria?”
“Duarte’s brother and sister,” she said. “They are both dead.”
“How?” he asked.
“Junot’s men,” she said. “In 1807. My mother’s son and daughter were killed by my father’s people. Is it any wonder that I have never known quite who I am or where I belong, Robert?”
He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers.
She smiled suddenly. “Careful, Robert,” she said. “You are in grave danger of believing me, are you not? And if you believe this, perhaps you will have to believe everything. Perhaps Miguel and Maria are figments of my imagination. They are quite common Portuguese names, after all. And perhaps there is no division in my loyalties. After all, I never knew my mother and I hated Luis.”
“We had better move away from here,” he said abruptly. “We are too close. We will find somewhere a little farther away to spend the night. Tomorrow we will call at as many farms as possible and head for Mortagoa. The British are forming at Bussaco, not far from there.”
“I know Bussaco,” she said. “There is a convent there.”
“Come, then.” His tones were abrupt as he got to his feet below the level of the skyline.
“I hope Marcel is down there,” she said. “Do you think he is, Robert?”
“Quite possibly,” he said. “But I would not get your hopes too high, Joana. I am not going to lose you after keeping you with me for so long.”
“Just once,” she said longingly. “If I could see him just one more time.” Her eyes strayed to the two guns slung over his shoulder.
“And I am supposed to wonder if you are in love with me?” he said. “I don’t believe you have ever been in love, Joana, or ever will be. Your appetite for men is too insatiable.”
She smiled at him as they strode down the hill side by side. “And for you especially so,” she said. “We are going to sleep outdoors?”
“We have no choice, I’m afraid,” he said.
“I like sleeping outdoors,” she said.
“Even in September when the nights are brisk?” he asked.
“Especially then,” she said. “We have to hold each other particularly close in order to share body heat. But I do have an unfair advantage. You make a larger blanket than I.” She laughed up at him.
* * *
He knew as soon as he woke that he had made a mistake to stop for the night so close to Viseu. He still felt sure that the bulk of the army would wait there for several days until all was organized to march into pitched battle. But of course scouting and foraging parties would be sent out. He had said as much to Joana just the evening before.
There was such a party out now. He could feel it with that soldier’s sixth sense he possessed, even before he heard it. And long before he saw it.
“Joana.” He had slid his hand between his chest and her mouth before speaking into her ear. He shook her shoulders at the same moment. “We have company, or will have soon if we don’t move.” He looked down into her open eyes. “Do I have to gag you?”
She shook her head slowly and he slid his hand away.
They had slept in a partly wooded valley behind the hill that shielded them from Viseu. Now the choice did not seem a wise one at all. The hill ahead of them was almost bare. There were only a few clumps of trees to provide cover. And yet if they continued along the valley, the scouting party or whatever it was that was approaching would be upon them before they could round the far side of the hill.
“We are going to have to run for it,” he said. “We need to be at the top of the hill and over it before they have a chance to see us. Hold my hand, Joana. We are going to rush from one clump of bushes to the next. And for God’s sake, don’t prove difficult.”
He picked up the guns, which he had kept close to his hand throughout the night, grabbed Joana’s hand, and began to run. She kept pace with him, making no attempt to impede his progress. She did not waste breath in speaking.
But it was hopeless. He knew that before they were even halfway up the slope. He could feel Frenchmen coming over the crest of the hill behind them. They would not be quite within musket range yet, but his back bristled nevertheless. The trees were thicker toward the top of the slope, but they would never make it that far.
He ducked behind one small clump of trees briefly and sank to one knee, dragging Joana in behind him. But he could see from pointed arms that they had been spotted. And there must have been fifty horsemen coming over the crest of the hill.
“Damnation!” he muttered. He knew that they had no chance at all. For even if by some miracle they succeeded in reaching the top of the hill before being gunned down, they would be caught beyond it. It was death or captivity they were facing, only relatively few miles from the British army. A fine choice.
“We are not going to make it, are we?” Joana said calmly from behind his shoulder.
He knew a moment of indecision. Only a moment, and then he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and tied it quickly to the end of her musket before thrusting the weapon into her hands.
“Here,” he said. �
��Hold it high above your head and step out from behind these bushes when they reach the valley. They will not shoot. I am going on. Good luck, Joana.” And he wasted no time, but raced on upward away from the shelter of the bushes, his back bristling even more than before. For now there was one musket within easy range of him, and it was loaded too.
And then shots were being fired—ahead of him and behind. And there were voices—English voices—shouting at him.
“Come on, sir,” someone yelled. “This way. We’ll cover for you.”
“Faster, Blake, you bastard!” someone else was calling. “You don’t want to die with a bullet in your back. It would look bad on your record.”
He almost grinned except that he was still too intent on the fear clawing at his back. What more opportune time could there be to run into—literally run into—a party of his own snipers? It was rifles that were being fired from the trees above and ahead of him. One swift glance over his shoulder showed the French horsemen in the valley pulling up uncertainly. Viscount Wellington was famous for the deadly ambushes he hid behind the crests of hills.
The same glance showed him Joana at his heels, the musket, minus his handkerchief, slung over her shoulder.
“What the hell?” he said, and he reached back to grab one of her arms and drag her upward with him until they could duck behind a reassuringly thick clump of bushes only just below the level of the British snipers.
“I felt a little nervous about being caught between two fires,” she said, panting and throwing herself down onto her stomach before peering downward between the bushes.
Captain Blake meanwhile was also on his stomach beside her and readying his rifle with hasty fingers and pointing it down the hill to the horsemen, who were milling about, still undecided whether to attack or not. They looked alarmingly close.