Mary Nichols - The Price Of Honour

‘You are not thieves, then?’ Mr Leopard said, levelly. ‘You have stolen nothing.’

‘Nothing that was not ours to begin with. Now you will die unless you can prove who you are and why you are spying.’

‘I was not spying.’

‘But you were thieving?’

There was no answer and Don Santandos walked round the horse, stroking its haunch. A good thump would set it off and leave the Englishman hanging. ‘Oh, not again!’ Olivia whispered. ‘Not again.’

‘Where is the woman?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

Olivia held her breath. Surely he would not rather die than reveal her whereabouts? It did not matter; she was not where he supposed her to be. Tell him, you fool, she pleaded silently. Tell him what he wants to know.

But he remained silent and Don Santandos was losing patience. ‘Englishmen are fools when it comes to women,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you want to die. Then I give you your wish.’ He raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the rump of the horse, leaving the Englishman swinging.

‘Oh, no,’ Olivia whispered. ‘No, you do not do this to me twice.’

Slowly, achingly slowly, she raised the rifle, rested it on the tailboard of the wagon and carefully took aim.

FOR one infinitesimal moment after the shot was fired, no one moved, except the Englishman, whose body fell to the ground with a thump and lay still. Olivia, from her hiding place, smiled in triumph and patted the butt of the heavy Baker rifle which had made it possible. But then all was commotion as some of the guerrilleros ran for guns which had been stacked against the wall and others turned towards the wagon where the difting gunsmoke betrayed her position. Now she had to keep the initiative and there was no time to reload. She darted out from her hiding place and ran to where the Leopard lay. Still startled, the men did nothing to stop her.

‘You imbeciles!’ she shouted. ‘You could have killed him!’

Don Santandos was the first to recover. ‘That, madame , was our intention,’ he said. ‘And but for your lucky shot he would be dead by now.’

She bit off the retort that it had not been luck but marksmanship, and concentrated on playing the distraught female. In a way she was distraught; without Mr Leopard, she was lost; reluctantly she had to admit it. ‘He is my husband,’ she said. ‘He is the one who will tell you I am who I say I am. Oh, if he dies…’

The partisans were watching, doing nothing, but she could not expect them to remain inactive for long; she had to convince them. ‘Darling! Darling, speak to me,’ she cried, as she worked to loosen the rope around their victim’s neck. She put her ear to his chest. His heart was beating like a hammer on an anvil. ‘You are my husband,’ she whispered, bending low over him so that her face was against his ear. ‘Tell me your name.’ When he did not reply, she lifted her head to look at him, wondering if he had heard her, or even if he could speak. His eyes were closed and there was an angry red weal round his neck where the rope had been.

‘Oh, do not die on me, my love!’ she cried, with more anguish than ever for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘I love you. I need you.’

She was not sure, but she thought she detected a slight grin on his face and hoped fervently no one else had seen it. To make sure of that, she bent and kissed him on the mouth and was completely taken aback when he put his arm round her neck so that her head was imprisoned and kissed her back. Where he found the strength to hold her so firmly after what he had been through she did not know. She was acutely aware of their audience as the kiss lengthened and became something more than a mere meeting of lips.

Then he moved his mouth, oh, so slowly, round to her ear, making her shiver. ‘Robert,’ he croaked. ‘Robert Lynmount.’

‘Come now, madame ,’ Don Santandos said. ‘Enough is enough. Such antics are best left to the bedroom and prove nothing.’

She looked up at the Spaniards who stood round grinning and covered her confusion with a show of anger. ‘You may think yourselves lucky that my husband is not dead, for Viscount Wellington would certainly have had something to say about it, I can tell you. Robert Lynmount is one of his most valued officers.’

Don Santandos laughed. ‘I would say his value is less than a dozen buttons and a metre of braid.’

She chose to ignore this reference to the Englishman’s mutilated uniform. ‘Now, will you please help him to a bed where he can recover?’ She prayed her authoritative manner would have the desired effect, because they had no hope of fighting their way out, even if she still held the gun and could reload.

‘You have courage, madame , I’ll grant you,’ Don Santandos said. ‘It has earned you both a reprieve, albeit a temporary one.’ He turned to give orders to two of his men who went to pick the Englishman up, one at his head and the other at his feet, but before they could do so he sat up and pushed them away. They stood back and watched as he forced himself to his feet. He stood, swaying a little before finding his balance, but Olivia knew better than to try to help him. He was an exceptionally strong man and he was also proud.

Don Santandos smiled. ‘Good. Come with me.’ He turned to lead the way into the building.

Olivia, tagging along behind, realised it had been a long time since the monastery had been used for the purpose for which it had been built. It was a small fortress; every window was a gun embrasure, with weapons and ammunition at the ready. There was food stacked in the room which had once been the monks’ kitchens and truckle-beds and straw paliasses were scattered about. They were obviously preparing for a siege. If they thought she and Philippe had been aware of their preparations when they captured them, it was no wonder they had been so anxious that they should not return to Ciudad Rodrigo and the French army.

‘You look surprised, madame ,’ Don Santandos said in French. ‘Why should that be?’

‘Please do not call me madame . I am not French; I have told you so a dozen times. My name is Mrs Lynmount. And yes, I am surprised to find so much preparation for war in a place like this.’

‘Because it is a monastery? They were built to withstand sieges, Mrs Lynmount.’

She was glad that he had changed to English; perhaps he was ready to be convinced, after all. ‘Not just that, but because it is so far from the main road. I can’t imagine an army deciding to come this way. The ground is too rough and the way too narrow.’

‘It would come if there was no alternative. What we have done for a small force, we can do for a greater. Now I have said enough.’ He opened the door to one of the monks’ cells. ‘You will be comfortable in here until we decide what to do with you.’

As soon as they had gone, Robert collapsed on to the narrow bed which stood against the wall, and shut his eyes. His hand strayed to his throat and he tried to swallow.

She knelt beside him. ‘Is there anything I can do to ease it? A bandage perhaps?’

‘I must…thank you for…my deliverance.’

‘I was angry.’

He grinned, but it was more a grimace of pain. ‘Angry enough to attempt…the impossible… The luck of the…gods must have been with you.’

‘Luck didn’t come into it,’ she said, busily tearing the hem off her petticoat to make a bandage. ‘I have been a crack shot ever since I was big enough to lift a pistol.’

His disbelief was obvious, but she let it pass; she was used to it. ‘Even a rifleman…would consider that a…shot in a thousand,’ he said. ‘And you must have known…that even if it succeeded…you would be taken prisoner.’