Margaret McPhee - A Regency Captain's Prize

She felt as his hands slid around her back, one tangling within her hair, anchoring her to him, the other pulling her closer still until her breasts were crushed mercilessly against the hard muscle of his chest. This was no kiss, but a possession, an outright punishment.

And then the anger and violence were gone and she felt his mouth gentle against hers, still kissing her but with a tenderness that belied the ravishment. His lips massaged, stroked, tasted, his tongue dancing against hers in invitation. Kissing her, and kissing her until she could no longer think straight; kissing her until she no longer knew night from day.

Josie forgot where she was, and all that had just happened—Telemos and her father and just who this man was. There was only this moment, only this feeling, only this kiss—so slow and thorough and seductive. And just as she gave herself up to the sensation his lips were gone, and it was over as suddenly as it had started.

The men were cheering as Dammartin released her, the idiotic grins splitting their faces hitting her like a dowse of cold water, revealing reality in all its starkness.

Josie stumbled back, the full horror of the situation hitting her hard, knocking the breath from her lungs, buckling her legs, and she would have fallen had not Dammartin moved to support her, catching her weight against him. She looked up into the dark smoulder of his eyes, and just for that moment their gazes held, before she pushed away, and turning, fled towards the safety of his tent.

She lay that night, fully clothed, in Dammartin’s tent, on the makeshift bed, alone, but for Josie there was no sleep—there was only the blood-splattered room in Telemos, and the death of her father…and the terrible weight of what she had just done.

Dammartin lay on his bed within the tent shared by Molyneux and Lamont, listening to their snores, awake, as he had been for hours, running the events of that evening through his mind for the hundredth time. The full-blown argument, her slap, and he would have let it go, done nothing, had not his men been watching.

She was a prisoner, a captive, Mallington’s daughter and he knew he could not let her action go unpunished. And he wanted so very much to kiss her, to show her that she could not defy him. And hadn’t he done just that? But what had started as a punishment had ended as something very different.

It seemed he could feel her against him still, so small and slender and womanly, her lips gaping with the shock of his assault. She had fought him, struggled, tried to escape, and he, like a brute, had shown no mercy. He had taken from her that which she did not know she had to give, and the taste of her innocence was like water to a man parched and dying.

He did not know what had changed, only that something had, and he found that he was kissing her in all honesty, kissing her as if she was his lover, with tenderness and seduction. And the sweetness of her tentative response, the surprise of it, the delight of it…so that he lost himself in that kiss, completely and utterly. It had taken the laughter and jeering of his men to bring him back from it, awakening him from her spell.

She was as shocked as he. He could see it in her face—shocked and ashamed and guilty.

Too late, Mademoiselle Mallington, he thought bitterly, too damned late, for there was no longer any denying what he had known these days past: he wanted her—the daughter of the man who had murdered his father. The knowledge repulsed him. God help him, his father must be turning in his grave. But even that thought did not stop him wanting to lay Josephine Mallington down naked beneath him and plunge his hard aching flesh deep within her. He wanted her with a passion that both excited and appalled.

Dammartin took a deep breath and forced himself to think calmly with the same hard determination that had driven him these past months. He might want her, but it did not mean that he would take her. More than lust would be needed to make Pierre Dammartin disgrace his father’s memory. He had been too long without a woman and that simple fact was addling his brain. He would stay away from her, assign all of her care to Molyneux, and finish this journey as quickly as he could. And on that resolution, Dammartin finally found sleep.

In the days that followed, Josie saw little of Dammartin. He was always somewhere in the distance, always occupied. Not once did he look at her. And strangely, despite that she hated him, Dammartin’s rejection made Josie more alone and miserable than ever.

But there was Lieutenant Molyneux and he was so open and handsome and so very reasonable. It did not seem to matter to him that she was British and his prisoner. He was respectful when there was nothing of respect anywhere else, and friendly when all around shunned her.

A hill rose by the side of the camp that evening, smaller and less jagged than those through which they had spent the day trekking. Up above, the sky was washed in shades of pink and violet and blue as the sun began to sink behind its summit. Something of its beauty touched a chord in Josie and she felt the scene call out to the pain and grief in her heart.

She turned to Molyneux in appeal. ‘Lieutenant, I would dearly like to climb that hill and watch the sunset. I would not wander from the route, which is clear and within your view from this position. I give you my most solemn word that I would not try to escape and that I would return to you here as soon as possible.’ Her voice raised in hope as she willed him to agree.

‘I am sorry, mademoiselle …’ his voice was gentle ‘…but Captain Dammartin…’ His words faltered and he started again. ‘I would be very happy to accompany you in your walk up the hill, if you would permit me. The sunset does indeed look most beautiful.’

She gave a nod of her head. ‘That would be most kind, Lieutenant.’

‘Then we should go quickly before we miss it,’ he said.

Josie smiled and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her and pulled her hat lower over her ears.

Together they walked up the hill by the camp side. And when the slope grew steeper, it seemed perfectly natural that Lieutenant Molyneux should take her arm in his, helping her to cover the ground with speed.

The summit was flat like a platform specially fashioned by the gods with the sole purpose of viewing the wonder of the heavens. Josie and Molyneux stood in awe at the sight that met their eyes. Before them the sky flamed a brilliance of colours. Red burned deep and fiery before fading to pink that washed pale and peachy. Great streaks of violet bled into the pink as if a watercolour wash had been applied too soon. Like some great canvas the picture was revealed before them in all its magnificence, a greater creation than could have been painted by any mere man. And just in the viewing of it, something of the heavy weight seemed to lift from Josie’s heart and for the first time since Telemos she felt some little essence of peace. Such vastness, such magnificence, as to heal, like a balm on her troubled spirit. Words were inadequate to express the beauty of nature.

Josie stood in silent reverence, her hand tucked comfortably within Molyneux’s arm, and watched, until the sound of a man’s tread interrupted.

Josie dragged her eyes away from the vivid spectacle before her to glance behind.

Captain Dammartin stood not three paces away. His face was harder than ever she had seen it, his scar emphasised by the play of light and shadows. He looked at where Josie’s hand was tucked into his lieutenant’s arm, and it seemed that there was a narrowing of his eyes.

‘Lieutenant Molyneux, return to your duties,’ he snapped.

‘Yes, sir.’ Molyneux released Josie’s hand and made his salute. He smiled at her, his hair fluttering in the breeze. His eyes were velvety grey and sincere and creased with the warmth of his smile. In the deep green of his jacket and the white of his pantaloons tinged pink from the sky, he cut a dashing image. ‘Please excuse me, mademoiselle .’