Jane Feather - Violet

“Cesar has beautiful manners,” she retorted, swinging down to the cobbles with an agile movement that belied her fatigue. A groom came running over, his eyes wide at the sight of the magnificent Arab.

“Eh, that's a beauty an' no mistake, sir,” he said admiringly to the Colonel, his eyes darting curiously to St. Simon's unusual companion.

“Yes, but he's high-strung,” the colonel said. “So be careful with him. I don't want to find myself looking for a replacement.”

“You wouldn't find one,” Tamsyn declared, handing the reins to the groom. “He's unique.” She stroked the animal's neck, murmuring incomprehensible sounds that clearly soothed the horse. “Take him away,” she said to the groom. “He'll be quiet enough now.”

“Let's go.” St. Simon spoke with an abrupt brusqueness. He turned and strode toward a flight of outside stairs at the rear of the wooden building.

Tamsyn followed, aware of her fatigue now as an almost deadening exhaustion. She was in no fit condition to negotiate with Wellington. She needed food and sleep before attempting the audacious task she'd set herself. A lot would depend on what kind of man the English commander in chief proved to be. From what she'd heard, he was of volatile temperament except on the battlefield, capable of flaying his own senior officers in one breath and offering the most urbane and civilized conversation in the next.· He was also known to have a fondness for the female sex. Whether she could capitalize on that remained to be seen. Filthy and bedraggled as she was at the moment, Tamsyn doubted she would create a favorable impression.

At the top of the stairs the colonel opened a door, and they entered a square landing at the head of an internal staircase. The space was set up as an office, and a harassed brigade-major, sitting at a deal table, looked up from the mountain of paper in front of him.

“Colonel.” He came to his feet, saluting. “The Peer will be glad to see you, sir.”

“Fretting, is he?” Julian returned the salute, glancing toward the closed door behind the aide-de-camp.

“Something chronic,” the man said with a rueful grin. “We tried to blow up the dam the Froggies constructed outside the San Pedro bastion and didn't get anywhere, and old Soult's on the march.” Unable to hide his fascination, he scrutinized the small figure standing just behind the colonel and said, “He'll be glad of some good news for once.”

“Mmm.” The colonel contented himself with the brief mumble. “Keep an eye on her,” he said shortly, ignoring Tamsyn's swift indrawn breath, and strode to the door, knocking briskly before entering.

Tamsyn strolled over to a window at the head of the stairs and perched on the broad sill. She regarded the brigade-major thoughtfully; “Does English hospitality run to a glass of wine… or even water? Riding for two days is thirsty work.”

The man looked dismayed, casting a quick glance around as if for assistance.

Tamsyn sighed. “Contrary to appearances, I'm here of my own free will. I assure you I'm not about to run away, and there's not the slightest need to 'keep an eye on me.’”

“But the colonel-”

“To the devil with the colonel,” she said crossly.

“He's in a bad mood, that's all. Now, could you please bring me something to drink?”

The brigade-major rose to his feet, his expression still uncertain. The girl didn't carry herself like any prisoner he'd come across, and the instruction to keep an eye on her was fairly vague… and it was certainly true that Colonel, Lord St. Simon hadn't looked to be in the best of tempers.

He compromised by locking the door to the outside stairs, reasoning that she couldn't use the inside staircase without alerting him, and went downstairs to summon an orderly to bring a carafe of water.

While she waited, Tamsyn looked down on the street. Her observation seemed merely idle, but in fact her eyes were taking in everything, assessing the mood and efficiency of the soldiers as they went about their business. Elvas at the moment closely resembled El Baron's almost military encampments in the mountain villages where she'd grown up, and she knew what she was looking for. On the whole, the atmosphere seemed buoyant, as if the men were comfortable with their present military operation. Of course, the men at headquarters would have a different viewpoint from those entrenched in the parallels before Badajos. Investing a town was generally a grim, frustrating business, and Badajos was holding out much longer than it had any right to. And the longer it held out, the more savage would be its taking.

Tamsyn shuddered, her mouth twisting in disgust.

She knew that the old feudal rules of warfare still applied. If a besieged city surrendered in a gracious and timely fashion once it was clear it couldn't hold out, then its conquerors would be magnanimous. Lf it didn't, it was assumed its inhabitants asked for what they would get when the victorious besiegers poured through the breaches.

Soldiers, she thought. Savage beasts, whatever uniform they wore, whatever righteous cause they would tout. They were all the same.

The aide-de-camp came back, followed by an orderly with a carafe of water and a glass. Tamsyn turned from the window, and the power of the unfocused loathing in her violet eyes made them both draw back for an instant. Then it was gone, and she accepted the glass with a neutral nod of thanks.

Within the commander in chiefs sanctum it was warm, a fire burning in the grate against the dullness of the day. Wellington poured wine for himself and St. Simon. “So you wrested her from Cornichet's hands. Much trouble?”

“Not too much.” Julian sipped his wine. “At least not at that point.”

Wellington raised an eyebrow at this caveat but didn't pursue it. He moved to stand in front of the fire, his back to the cheerful glow. “How much had she told them?”

“Nothing. We arrived in the nick of time… quite literally.” He explained briefly how he'd recovered La Violette. “We were away from there with no casualties and made camp a few hours later.”

He paused. He was coming to the tricky part of his narrative. “The next morning the girl had personal needs to attend to. I escorted her beyond the camp to the river where there was an outcrop of rock. She was tethered by the ankle to my sword belt.” He drank again. Wellington remained silent.

“She has a giant of a bodyguard. A Scotsman. He managed to escape from Cornichet's camp under cover of the fire we'd set. He followed us, and I'm afraid he sprang out at me while I was waiting for Violette to… “

“Quite so.” Wellington waved a hand in comprehension. “He disarmed you?”

Julian nodded morosely. “I was a damn fool.” If you only knew how much of a fool.

“But you still brought her in?”

“Yes, with my assurance that she's free to leave whenever she chooses; but she's prepared to sell her information for the right price.”

“Which is?”

Julian shook his head. “As yet, she hasn't said.”

“And this gigantic bodyguard?”

“She sent him off on some errand. He's to find her here on his return.”

“A mysterious mercenary,” mused the commander.

He rubbed his backside meditatively in the fire's warmth, his eyes resting on the colonel's countenance.

He could read the man's chagrin, his sense of having failed in his mission, although by any standards it was only a technical failure. But Julian St. Simon didn't tolerate failure from anyone and least of all from himself

“Let's invite her in,” he said after a moment. “Hear what she has to say.”

Julian nodded and said slowly, “By the way, she's not quite what you might expect. She's half-English. By some extraordinary quirk of circumstance her mother was Cornish, or so she claims. And gently bred into the bargain.”