Jane Feather - Violet

Julian gasped at the sheer effrontery, the naked sexuality of the invitation. An invitation that he fought with clenched muscles to withstand. When he finally spoke, his voice grated in the lushly expectant silence.

“I will give you ten minutes to be ready to accompany me to the dinner table. If you're not dressed by then, so help me, I'll carry you through the streets just as you are.” Then he turned and left the room, aware that he was almost running as if the devils of enchantment would still reach out and haul him back.

Tamsyn swung off the cot and stretched. It was strange, but the English colonel was behaving unpredictably. In her experience men didn't refuse such invitations. Especially when as far as the colonel knew, there were no strings. He couldn't possibly guess what she was planning for his--or rather, their immediate future.

Her protective landlady had provided her with clean undergarments, stockings, and a shirt. They were of rough homespun rather than the fine lawn, linen, or silk

Tamsyn was accustomed to wearing next to her skin. El Baron's daughter had known only the best. But they were clean, as clean as her bathed skin and freshly washed hair. The widow had also brushed the buttersoft leather britches and polished the cordovan boots until the well-worn leather gleamed with a dull sheen. So Tamsyn was feeling more respectable than she'd been in many days when she jumped energetically down the stairs to greet the fuming and impatient Colonel, Lord St. Simon in the street outside the cottage.

“There, milord colonel, I'm ready to go with you.”

She smiled nonchalantly as if the charged moments in the bedroom had never taken place. “And I'm hungry as a hunter, so I trust your commander in chief keeps a good table.”

Julian didn't deign to reply, merely walked rapidly through the cobbled' streets, lit by oil lamps at strategic intervals and still as busy as in broad daylight. The army didn't sleep, and the siege workings continued in the moonlight as busily as they did in the sunshine.

The roomful of men turned as one to the door when St. Simon and his companion entered.

“Ah, Violette.” Wellington stepped toward her. “I trust you're rested.”

“Yes, thank you, I slept wonderfully.” Tamsyn took the hand he offered.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce La Violette.” The commander in chief slipped his other hand around her waist as he presented her to his staff.

Tamsyn didn't attempt to move away from the half embrace as she responded to the introductions with smiling nods. She'd heard of the duke's reputation as a flirt, and she was perfectly happy to encourage his attentions since they could only assist her purpose.

Julian stood to one side, morosely sipping sherry, watching as the men in the room clustered around the small figure. La Violette certainly knew how to be the center of attention. Despite her masculine attire and the short, shining cap of hair, she was exuding feminine charm… female wiles, he amended. What the hell was she after? She'd come there to sell something, not reduce the entire high command of the English army to a state resembling Circe's fools.

A servant came in bearing a baron of beef on a wooden board. He placed it on the table set for dinner before the fire. “Sir, dinner is served.”

“Good.” Wellington rubbed his hands together in hearty anticipation. “Come and sit beside me, my dear.” He swept Tamsyn into a chair on his right and took his place at the head. He raised his eyeglass and examined the offering on the table as servants unloaded steaming platters from their trays.

“Now, what have we here? A dish of mutton chops, I do believe. Do let me help you… Tell me, must I call you Violette, or do you have another name?” He placed a chop on her plate together with several thick slices of beef

“My given name is Tamsyn,” she said, hungrily helping herself to a dish of roast potatoes. “Violette… Violeta-they're the names by which I'm known among the partisans.”

“Do the partisans all have code names?” the brigadier asked, filling her wineglass.

Tamsyn flashed him a smile as she picked up a mutton chop with her fingers. “Maybe.”

Julian watched as she tore at the flesh with her sharp white teeth, holding the chop between finger and thumb. When every last morsel of meat was off the bone, she licked her fingers, picked up her fork, and speared a potato. She ate with the natural efficiency of a hungry animal, using her fingers if they were more suitable to the task, or deftly filleting a brook trout with a couple of strokes of her knife. There was nothing distasteful about her table manners, but neither was there any formality. Food was to be enjoyed, an appetite both sensual and necessary.

He noticed that while she drank several glasses of water, she merely took occasional sips of the wine in her glass.

Casually, he turned his chair sideways to the table, resting his forearm on the white starched cloth, his fingers caressing the stem of his wineglass. “You don't care for the wine, Violette?”

She looked up swiftly, and her eyes were sharp as they met his across the table. “On the contrary, milord colonel, in the right place and time I enjoy a good rioja as much as anyone. But I have to be careful, it tends to go to my head.” She smiled. “Cecile had the same difficulty.”

“Cecile?” Major Carson queried, carrying a forkful of mushroom compote to his lips.

“My mother, sir. I inherited her small stature. The baron maintained we had too little height and weight to absorb much wine.” She bit into an almond pastry. “It seemed as good an explanation as any.”

“St. Simon tells us that your mother was English,” the brigadier said, taking his nose out of his wineglass.

“Yes,” Tamsyn agreed. She brushed crumbs off her fingers and played with the locket at her throat. “This belonged to my mother. It belonged to her mother, I believe.”

“But how did she find herself in Spain?” Major Carson asked.

“She was paying a visit to some family friends… an ambassador or some such in Madrid. She disappeared into the arms of my father at some point in the journey.” Tamsyn smiled as she helped herself to another sweetmeat from the basket in front of her. “And had no desire to leave them… until she died.”

The shadow that passed across her face was gone before anyone but Julian caught it. But a hardness lingered in her face and eyes, although she continued to smile and nibble her pastry. It was as if she'd thrown up shutters to her innermost feelings, he thought. As if something too deep and too precious had come dangerously close to the surface.

The conversation became general until the covers were removed and the port decanter appeared. Chairs were pushed back from the table, cigars were lit, the decanter circulated, and it clearly didn't occur to anyone that La Violette was in the least out of place. Least of all did it occur to the bandit, Julian reflected caustically, regarding her from beneath his heavy eyelids as she joked and flirted quite openly with Wellington.

When she accepted a peeled grape from between the duke's fingers, Julian decided he'd had as much as he could take of this charade. His men were in the trenches and he had work to do. Pushing back his chair, he stood up.

“You'll excuse me, gentlemen, but I've pickets to post. I must return to my brigade.”

“The men are in a filthy temper,” Colonel Webster observed, suddenly somber. “They're swearing at the Spaniards in Badajos for yielding the city to the French without a fight, and they're swearing blue bloody murder at the French for holding out when they know they haven't got a chance.”

“There'll be bloody work once we get into the city, you mark my words,” Brigadier Cornwallis agreed in curiously detached accents as he refilled his port glass.