Margaret McPhee - A Regency Captain's Prize - The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution

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 .’

‘Immediately, Lieutenant.’ Dammartin’s voice was harsh.

The Lieutenant turned and hurried away, leaving Josie and his captain silhouetted against the brilliance of the setting sun.

‘I have tolerated your games long enough, Mademoiselle Mallington.’ The colours in the sky reflected upon his hair, casting a rich warmth to its darkness. The wind rippled through it making it appear soft and feathery. It stood in stark contrast to the expression in his eyes.

All sense of tranquillity shattered, destroyed in a single sentence by Dammartin.

‘Games? I have no idea of what you speak, sir.’ Her tone was quite as cold as his.

‘Come, mademoiselle ,’ he said. ‘Do not play the innocent with me. You have been courting the attention of my lieutenant these days past. He is not a lap-dog to dance upon your every whim. You are a prisoner of the 8th Dragoons. You would do well to remember that.’

Shock caused Josie’s jaw to gape. Her eyes grew wide and round. It was the final straw as far as she was concerned. He had kissed her, kissed her with violence and passion and tenderness, and she, to a shame that would never be forgotten, had kissed him back—this man who was her enemy and who looked at her with such stony hostility. And she thought of the blaze in his eyes at the mention of her father’s name. He had destroyed everything that she loved, and now he had destroyed the little transient peace. In that moment she knew that she could not trust herself to stay lest she flew at him with all the rage that was in her heart.

‘Must you always be so unpleasant?’ She turned her face from his, hating him for everything, and made to walk right past him.

‘Wait.’ He barked it as an order. ‘Not so fast, mademoiselle . I have not yet finished.’

She cast him a disparaging look. ‘Well, sir, I have.’ And walked right past him.

A hand shot out, and fastened around her right arm. ‘I do not think so, mademoiselle .’

She did not fight against him. She had already learned the folly of that. ‘What do you mean to do this time?’ she said. ‘Beat me?’