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

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СКАЧАТЬ Josie.

      Even though she had seen their broken bodies and heard her father’s last drawn breath, she could not really believe that it was so. It was like some horrific nightmare from which she would awaken. None of it seemed real. Yet Josie knew that it was, and the knowledge curdled a sourness in her stomach. And still the images flashed before her eyes, like illustrations of Dante’s Inferno, and still the racket roared in her ears, and her throat tightened and her stomach revolted, and she stumbled through the blackness to the corner of the cellar and bent over to be as sick as a dog. Only when her stomach had been thoroughly emptied did she experience some respite from the torture.

      She wiped her mouth on her handkerchief and steadied herself against the wall. Taking a deep breath, she felt her way back to the wooden box on which she had been seated.

      It seemed that she sat there an eternity in the chilled darkness before the footfalls sounded: booted soles coming down the same stairs over which the French soldiers had dragged her. One set only, heading towards the cellar. Josie braced herself, stifling the fear that crept through her belly, and waited for what was to come. There was the scrape of metal as the key was turned in the lock, and the door was thrown open.

      The light of the lantern dazzled her. She turned her face away, squinting her eyes. Then the lantern moved to the side; as her eyes began to adjust to the light, Josie found herself looking at the French captain whom her father had called Dammartin.

      ‘Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said, and crossed the threshold into the cellar. His lantern illuminated the dark, dismal prison as he came to stand before her.

      He seemed much bigger than she remembered. The dust and dirt had been brushed from the green of his jacket, and its red collar and cuffs stood bright and proud. The jacket’s single, central line of brass buttons gleamed within the flickering light. His white breeches met knee-high, black leather boots and, unlike the last time they had met, he was not wearing the brass helmet of the dragoons. Beneath the light of the lantern his hair was shorn short and looked as dark as his mood. She could see that the stare in his eyes was stony and the line of his mouth was hard and arrogant. In that, at least, her memory served her well.

      ‘Captain Dammartin.’ She got to her feet.

      ‘Sit down,’ he commanded in English.

      She felt her hackles rise. There was something in the quietness of his tone that smacked of danger. She thought she would defy him, but it seemed in that moment that she heard again her father’s voice, Trust him, Josie. Trust him, when her every instinct screamed to do otherwise? She hesitated, torn between obeying her father and her own instinct.

      He shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. ‘Stand, then, if you prefer. It makes no difference to me.’ There was a silence while he studied her, his eyes intense and scrutinising.

      Josie’s heart was thrashing madly within her chest, but she made no show of her discomfort; she met his gaze and held it.

      Each stared at the other in a contest of wills, as if to look away would be to admit weakness.

      ‘I have some questions that I wish to ask you,’ Dammartin said, still not breaking his gaze.

      Josie felt her legs begin to shake and she wished that she had sat down, but she could not very well do so now. She curled her toes tight within her boots, and pressed her knees firmly together, tensing her muscles, forcing her legs to stay still. ‘As I have of you, sir.’

      He did not even look surprised. ‘Then we shall take it in turns,’ he said. ‘Ladies first.’ And there was an emphasis on the word ‘ladies’ that suggested she was no such thing.

      ‘My father’s body… Is he… Have you…?’

      ‘Your father lies where he fell,’ he said harshly.

      ‘You have not given him a burial?’

      ‘Did Lieutenant Colonel Mallington take time to bury Frenchmen? Each side buries its own.’

      ‘In a battle situation, but this is different!’

      ‘Is it?’ he asked, and still their gazes held. ‘I was under the impression, mademoiselle, that we were engaged in battle this day.’

      She averted her gaze down to the floor, suddenly afraid that she would betray the grief and pain and shock that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘Battle’ was too plain, too ordinary a word to describe what had taken place that day in the deserted village of Telemos. Twenty-seven lives had been lost, her father’s among them. Only when she knew that the weakness had passed did she glance back up at him. ‘But there is no one left to bury him.’

      ‘So it would seem.’

      His answer seemed to echo between them.

      ‘I would request that you give him a decent burial.’

      ‘No.’

      She felt her breath rush in a gasp of disbelief. ‘No?’

      ‘No,’ he affirmed.

      She stared at him with angry, defiant eyes. ‘My father told me that you were an honourable man. It appears that he was grossly mistaken in his opinion.’

      He raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

      ‘You will leave him as carrion for wild animals to feed upon?’

      ‘It is the normal course of things upon a battlefield.’

      She took a single step towards him, her fingers curled to fists by her sides. ‘You are despicable!’

      ‘You are the first to tell me so,’ he said.

      She glared at him, seeing the dislike in his eyes, the hard determination in his mouth, this loathsome man to whom her father had entrusted her. ‘Then give me a spade and I will dig his grave myself.’

      ‘That is not possible, mademoiselle.’

      Her mouth gaped at his refusal.

      ‘You wish Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s body to be buried? It is a simple matter. It shall be done—’

      ‘But you said—’

      ‘It shall be done,’ he repeated, ‘as soon as you answer my questions.’

      Fear prickled at the back of Josie’s neck, and trickled down her spine. She shivered, suspecting all too well the nature of the French captain’s questions. Carefully and deliberately, she fixed a bland expression upon her face and prayed for courage.

      Pierre Dammartin watched the girl closely and knew then that he had not been wrong in his supposition. ‘So tell me, Mademoiselle Mallington, what were riflemen of the Fifth Battalion of the 60th Regiment doing in Telemos?’

      ‘I do not know.’

      ‘Come now, mademoiselle. I find that hard to believe.’

      ‘Why so? Surely you do not think my father would discuss such things with me? I assure you that it is not the done thing for British army officers to discuss their orders with their daughters.’

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