Jane Feather - Violet

Wellington whistled. “A gently bred Englishwoman bedded with a notorious brigand! It's beyond belief” “I agree. But why would she invent such a tale?” Wellington scratched his long, bony nose. “No reason that I can think of”

Julian shrugged his own incomprehension. He strode to the door and opened it. “Violette.”

Tamsyn slid off the windowsill and came over to the door, leaving her empty glass on the brigade-major's desk. She cast the colonel a sideways glance as she brushed past him into the presence of the commander in chief

Wellington inclined his head in a slight bow of greeting, his eyes running over the small figure in her shabby, mud-splattered britches and boots. She still wore her bandolier, her rifle slung over her shoulder, the knife at her belt. And yet, despite this, he thought there was something almost forlorn about her. She seemed very young and very alone as she stood there regarding him with an indefinable air of challenge.

“I understand you have something to sell me,” he stated.

“If the price is right,” she agreed.

“And what is your price?”

Tamsyn shook her head. “Forgive me, but I'd like time to rest before we begin to negotiate. I don't know as yet exactly what you wish me to tell you.”

She cast St. Simon another sidelong glance, one so redolent of sensual languor that it took his breath away. “Perhaps the colonel could show me where I may rest for a while.”

Abruptly his body sang with memory, his blood flowing hot and swift. God's grace, but she could become an addiction.

He had to get away from her, from the dangerous temptation in those wicked violet eyes, in that lean, compact little body.

He'd brought the girl in, his task was over. How Wellington conducted the negotiations was none of his business.

“You'll have to excuse me, I must return to my brigade,” he said frigidly, turning to leave. As he did so, the girl suddenly swayed on her feet, her hand reaching blindly for something to hold on to.

“What is it?” He'd reached her in one stride, encircling her with his arm. Immediately she leaned into him, a tiny, vulnerable figure against his own physical breadth.

Tamsyn closed her eyes, keeping her head bowed against his tunic to hide her satisfaction. Cecile hadn't been exaggerating about the English gentleman’s foolish chivalry. She wanted Lord St. Simon at her side throughout her stay in Elvas, and she was quite willing to resort to trickery to achieve that purpose.

“What is it?” he repeated. “Are you ill?”

“I'm just very tired,” she said, her voice weak. “I'm sorry… so silly of me, I feel quite faint.”

“Come to the fire.” Wellington was all concern and consideration. “Take a glass of wine, that'll revive you.” He poured a glass, looking worriedly over his shoulder as the colonel half carried the girl to a chair by the fire.

“Here we are.” Wellington handed her the glass.

“Drink it down, now… that's the ticket.” He nodded approvingly as obediently she sipped.

She raised her head and smiled at him, a faint, tremulous little smile. “So kind… thank you, sir.”

Julian was still leaning over her, one arm at her back.

Suddenly he withdrew it as if he'd been scalded. The little Diablillo was up to her tricks again, he was convinced of it. He moved away and stood resting one arm along the mantelpiece, regarding the drooping, bravely smiling bandit with a sardonic glare. What the devil was she up to?

“Julian, we must find her a comfortable billet at once. I'll ask young Sanderson what he can come up with.” Wellington bustled to the door to consult with the brigade-major, whose main task was to fix and contrive and organize for his commanding officer, however bizarre the circumstances.

“What are you up to?” the colonel demanded softly.

“You're not fooling me with this swooning-maiden act, Violette.”

Tamsyn raised her eyes, her expression hurt. “I don't know what you can mean. I can't even remember when I last slept in a bed. I'm exhausted.”

She had every reason to be, and yet he remained unconvinced.

“Sanderson… a remarkable young fellow… knows just the billet, hard by the hospital.” Rubbing his hands, Wellington came back to the fire. “He says there's a pleasant woman there who'll attend to you, my dear. And when you've rested, you'll dine with me and m'staff.”

His eyes rested on her face, and they were sharp and shrewd despite his apparent geniality. “We'll discuss how we can assist each other a little later.”

“You're too kind, sir,” she said with a weary smile. “Julian, you'll see her settled and bring her back here to dine,” the commander in chief said, suddenly brisk.

“I really should return to my brigade, sir.”

“Yes… yes, of course. But later, man, later.” There was nothing for it. Julian sighed and acceded with a curt nod in Tamsyn's direction. “Come.”

She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, but Lord St. Simon seemed to have lost his chivalrous instincts. He remained standing by the fireplace, his unwavering gaze as sardonic as before. Oh, well, Tamsyn reflected with an inner shrug, she'd achieved what she'd intended for the moment. Wellington regarded her with sympathy rather than hostility, and the colonel was still at her side.

She offered Wellington another feeble smile of thanks and tottered to the door, the colonel on her heels. Her demeanor changed once they were outside, the door firmly closed behind them. She glanced up at her companion with a mischievous wink.

He inhaled sharply, then spun around to address the brigade-major. “Lieutenant, where am I to find this lodging?”

“A widow called Braganza, sir,” Sanderson said.

“The whitewashed cottage beside the hospital. I've sent an orderly to alert her, so she'll be expecting you.” He stared with now unabashed curiosity at Violette. “She speaks only Portuguese. Does… does…”

“Yes, of course I do,” Tamsyn said with a touch of impatience at what struck her as an absurd question. She'd spent her life roaming across the borders of Portugal, Spain, and France.

Julian said nothing, merely strode ahead of her down the stairs and out into the street. Tamsyn had to run to catch up with him. “Don't go so fast, I really am exhausted.”

“You may pick some other gull for your tricks,” he said tautly. “I don't know what the devil you're up to, and I don't give a damn. The sooner I can wash my hands of you, the happier I shall be.”

“Temper, temper,” Tamsyn murmured. “I wish I knew what I'd done to arouse it. It seems most unjust to me, but then I suppose you're one of those people of uncertain temper who vent their frustrations whenever the whim takes them. I've heard of such people, although I count myself fortunate that until now I haven't had many dealings-”

“Have you finished?” He interrupted this meandering muse, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or scream his vexation to the four winds.

“I hadn't,” she said, sounding aggrieved. “But if you don't care for plain speaking… “ She shrugged.

“On the contrary,” he declared, tight-lipped. ''I'm something of an exponent myself Do you wish to hear a little?”

Tamsyn didn't answer. She sidestepped a puddle with an agile leap that made nonsense of her claims to exhaustion and said cheerfully, “That must be the widow's house up ahead on the left. It's the only whitewashed one on the street.”

Senhora Braganza, well accustomed to the sight of women partisans, showed little amazement at Tamsyn's appearance. Insisting they inspect the accommodations, she showed them upstairs to a small whitewashed chamber under the eaves.

“This will do beautifully,” Tamsyn said, interrupting the widow's voluble description of the chamber's amenities. “All I need is a bed. And hot water.”