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

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Regency

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MARGARET MCPHEEloves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the stories down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind and enjoys cycling in the Scottish countryside, tea and cakes.

A Regency Captain’s Prize

The Captain’s Forbidden Miss

His Mask of Retribution

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the stories down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind and enjoys cycling in the Scottish countryside, tea and cakes.

Title Page A Regency Captain’s Prize The Captain’s Forbidden Miss His Mask of Retribution Margaret McPhee www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Captain’s Forbidden Miss The Captain’s Forbidden Miss Margaret McPhee

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

His Mask of Retribution

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Endpage

Copyright

The Captain’s Forbidden Miss

Margaret McPhee

Chapter One

Central Portugal—31 October 1810

High up in the deserted village of Telemos in the mountains north of Punhete, Josephine Mallington was desperately trying to staunch the young rifleman’s bleeding when the French began their charge. She stayed where she was, kneeling by the soldier on the dusty stone floor of the old monastery in which her father and his men had taken refuge. The French hail of bullets through the holes where windows had once stood continued as the French dragoon troopers began to surge forwards in a great mass, the sound of their pas de charge loud even above the roar of gunpowder.

‘En avant! En avant! Vive la République! ’ She heard their cries.

All around was the acrid stench of gunpowder and of fresh spilt blood. Stones that had for three hundred years sheltered monks and priests and holy Mass now witnessed carnage. Most of her father’s men were dead, Sarah and Mary too. The remaining men began to run.

The rifleman’s hand within hers jerked and then went limp. Josie looked down and saw that life had left him, and, for all the surrounding chaos, the horror of it so shocked her that for a moment she could not shift her stare from his lifeless eyes.

‘Josie! For God’s sake, get over here, girl!’

Her father’s voice shook her from the daze, and she heard the thudding of the French axes as they struck again and again against the thick heavy wood of the monastery’s front door. She uncurled her fingers from those of the dead soldier and, slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she draped it to cover his face.

‘Papa?’ Her eyes roved over the bloody ruins.

Bodies lay dead and dying throughout the hall. Men that Josie had known in life lay still and grotesque in death—her father’s men—the men of the Fifth Battalion of the British 60th Regiment of Foot. Josie had seen death before, more death than any young woman should see, but never death like this.

‘Stay low and move quickly, Josie. And hurry—we do not have much time.’

On her hands and knees she crawled to where her father and a small group of his men crouched. Dirt and blood smeared their faces and showed as dark patches against the deep green of their jackets and the blue of their trousers.

She felt her father’s arms around her, pulling her into the huddle of men.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I am fine,’ she said, even though ‘ fine ’ was hardly the word to describe how she was feeling.

He nodded and set her from him. She heard her father speak again, but this time his words were not for her. ‘The door will not hold them much longer. We must make for the uppermost floor. Follow me.’

She did as her father instructed, responding to the strength and authority in his voice as much as any of his men would have done, pausing only to collect the rifle, cartridges and powder horn from a dead rifleman, and taking care to keep her eyes averted from the gaping wound in his chest. Clutching the rifle and ammunition to her, she fled with the men, following her father out of the hall, past the door through which the French axes had almost hacked, and up the wide stone staircase.

They ran up two flights of stairs and into a room at the front of the building. Miraculously the key was still in the lock of the door. As it turned beneath her father’s hand, she heard the resounding thud of the front door being thrown open and knew that the French were in. They heard the sound of many French feet below running into the great hall and then the booted footfalls began to climb the stairs that would lead them to the room that housed the few remaining riflemen.

There was little to mark Lieutenant Colonel Mallington from his riflemen save his bearing and the innate authority that he emanated. His jacket was of the same dark green, with black frogging, scarlet facings and silver buttons, but on his shoulder was a silver thread wing and around his waist was the red sash of rank. His riding boots were easily unnoticed and his fur-trimmed pelisse lay abandoned somewhere in the great hall below.

Within their hiding place, Josie listened while her father spoke to his men. ‘We need to draw this out as long as we possibly can, to give our messengers the best chance of reaching General Lord Wellington with the news.’ Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s face was strong and fearless. He looked each one of his men in the eye.

Josie saw the respect on the riflemen’s faces.

Her father continued, ‘The French force are marching through these hills on a secret mission. General Foy, who leads the column of French infantry and its cavalry detachment, is taking a message from General Massena to Napoleon Bonaparte himself. He will travel first to Ciudad Rodrigo in Spain and then to Paris.’

The men stood quiet and listened to what their lieutenant colonel was saying.

‘Massena is requesting reinforcements.’

‘And General Lord Wellington knows nothing of it,’ added Sergeant Braun. ‘And if Massena gets his reinforcements…’

‘That is why it is imperative that Wellington is forewarned of this,’ said Lieutenant Colonel Mallington. ‘It is only half an hour since our men left with the message. If Foy and his army realise that we have despatched messengers, then they will go after them. We must ensure that does not happen. We must buy Captain Hartmann and Lieutenant Meyer enough time to get clear of these hills.’

The men nodded, thin-lipped, narrow-eyed, determined in their conviction.