Margaret McPhee - A Regency Captain's Prize

Lieutenant Molyneux’s pensive mood allowed Josie time to think. She spent much time pondering the Lieutenant’s strange remarks, but came no nearer to fathoming of what he had been speaking. There was definitely something that she did not know, something to do with Dammartin and the hatred that he nursed.

Her eyes followed ahead to where the French Captain rode, and she thought how she had caught him looking at her several times that day with an expression of such intensity as to almost be hunger. He was not looking at her now.

She remembered his face from this morning when he had strode so boldly into her tent, his tent. The hours spent with Molyneux had mellowed Josie’s anger and indignation. There had been an initial shock in Dammartin’s eyes before they had darkened to a dangerous smoulder. The camp had been disbanding and she had overslept. And it had all happened so quickly that she doubted he could have seen very much at all.

She thought of the long, cold hours of the night when he had given her his greatcoat, and she wondered as to that small kindness. Josie had heard the stories of what French soldiers inflicted upon the towns that they took and the people who went against them. She knew of the interrogations, and the torture…and the rape. That she was an innocent did not stop her from knowing what enemy soldiers did to women. Within the Fifth Battalion of the 60th Regiment of Foot gossip reached the Lieutenant Colonel’s daughter just the same as it reached everyone else. Yet for all the dislike in his eyes, Dammartin had not touched her, nor allowed his men to do so. He had not beaten her, he had not starved her when he could so easily have done so. She knew all of these things, yet whenever Dammartin looked at her, she could not prevent the somersaults of apprehension in her stomach, or the sudden hurry of her heart.

They broke for camp in the late afternoon, before the light of day was lost. Fundao—another day’s march closer to General Foy fulfilling his mission, another day’s march between Josie and the British lines.

Molyneux stood some distance away, talking with Sergeant Lamont, but the Lieutenant was careful to keep Josie within his sight.

Josie sat on her portmanteau, watching while the tents were erected, wondering how fast Molyneux could move if she were to make a run for it. She could not imagine him with the same harsh rugged determination of his captain.

There was something single-minded and ruthless about Dammartin, something driven. And she thought of the deadly earnest of his warning, and knew that even if Molyneux did not catch her, Dammartin most certainly would. Her eyes closed, trying to stifle the intensity of the memory. Dammartin was not a man to make promises lightly.

‘Mademoiselle Mallington.’

The sound of his voice behind her made her jump. She rose swiftly to her feet and turned to face him. ‘Captain Dammartin.’

He instructed a young trooper to carry her portmanteau to his tent. Everything about him was masculine and powerful. His expression was closed, his dark brows hooding eyes that were as hard as granite and just as cold.

‘You will sleep in my tent tonight—alone.’

Alone? She felt the surprise lighten her face and relief leap within her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, wondering if she really did have the measure of Dammartin. She did not dare to ask him where he would be spending the night.

He continued as if she had not spoken. ‘There will be a guard posted outside all of the night, so do not think to try to escape, mademoiselle . I trust you remember my warning.’

She gave a wary nod and made to move away towards the tent.

‘I am not yet finished,’ he said icily.

Josie hesitated, feeling his words rankle, but she turned back and raised her eyes calmly to his. ‘You wish to say something further, sir?’

‘I wish to ask you some questions.’

It seemed that her chest constricted and her heart rate kicked to a stampede. ‘You said there would be no more questions.’

‘No more questions last night,’ he amended.

She held her head high and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Captain. You will waste your time with questions—there is nothing more that I can tell you.’

‘We will see, mademoiselle .’

She breathed deeply, trying to keep her fear in check. He could not mean to interrogate her, not now, not when she was so unprepared. ‘I am tired, sir, and wish only to retire.’

‘We are all tired,’ he said harshly.

She clutched her hands together, her fingers gripping tight.

‘You may retire when you have told me of your father.’

‘My father?’ She stared at him in disbelief, feeling all of her anger and all of her grief come welling back. ‘Is it not enough that you killed him? He is dead, for pity’s sake! Can you not leave him be even now?’

‘It is true that he is dead, mademoiselle ,’ admitted Dammartin, his face colder and harsher than ever she had seen it, ‘but not by my hand…unfortunately.’

She was aghast. ‘Unfortunately?’ she echoed. ‘Our countries may be at war, but my father does not deserve such contempt. He was the bravest of soldiers, an honourable man who gave his life for his country.’

‘He was a villain,’ said Dammartin, and in his eyes was a furious black bitterness.

‘How dare you slur his good name!’ she cried, her breast heaving with passion, all fear forgotten. All of her anger and hurt and grief welled up to overflow and she hated Dammartin in that moment as she had never hated before. ‘You are the very devil, sir!’ And, drawing back her hand, she slapped his cruel, arrogant face as hard as she could.

The camp fell silent. Each and every dragoon turned to stare.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

The audacity of Josie’s action seemed to slow time itself.

She saw the ruddy print of her hand stain his cheek, saw his scar grow livid, and she could not believe that she had struck him with such violence, with such hatred, she who was his captive at his mercy.

His eyes grew impossibly darker. There was a slight tightening of the muscle in his jaw. His breath was so light as to scarce be a breath at all. The air was heavy with a rage barely sheathed.

She stared in mounting horror, every pore in her body screaming a warning, prickling at her scalp, rippling a shiver down her spine, and she knew that she should run, but beneath the force of that dark penetrating gaze her legs would not move.

‘I…’ She gasped, knowing she had to say something, but the way that he was looking at her froze the very words in her throat.

Her eyes swept around, seeing the faces of all his men, and all of the incredulity and anticipation so clear upon them, waiting for the storm to erupt.

Josie began to tremble and slowly, ever so slowly, as if she could move without his noticing, she began to inch away, her toes reaching tentatively to find the solidity of the ground behind her.

When he struck it was so sudden, so fast, that she saw nothing of it. One minute she was standing before him, and the next, she was in his arms, his body hard against hers, his mouth claiming her own with a savagery that made her gasp with shock.

Dammartin’s lips were bold and punishing, exploring her own with an intimacy to which he had no right.

Josie fought back, struggling against him, but his arms just tightened around her, locking her in position, so that she could not escape but just endure, like a ship cast adrift while the lightning flashed and the thunder roared, and the waves crashed upon its deck.

He claimed her as if she were his for the taking, his lips plundering and stealing her all, his tongue invading with a force she could not refuse. And all the while the dark stubble of his chin rasped rough against her.