OLIVIA had plenty of time to think as she rode. Walking Thor through the depopulated Portuguese countryside looking for an army was hardly a suitable occupation for a lady. But had she forfeited her right to be called a gentlewoman even before she met Robert? She tried telling herself she had not wanted to go back to Ciudad Rodrigo, that if Robert had not made that bargain with her she would have found her way home and resumed her place at her father’s side, to all intents and purposes a grieving widow. But it was not fair to blame Robert; she had chosen the path she had taken and she had no one to blame but herself if he looked on her as just another of the men under his command.
She smiled wryly. That was what came of being able to ride and shoot like a trooper. Her father had been proud of her prowess with a gun and on a horse, but it was a simple delight in her accomplishments, meant to impress his friends; it did not mean he wanted her to deny her womanhood. That was what Robert had accused her of, and if it was true she could hardly blame him for treating her like a man. He did not think of Juana as anything but a woman.
She dug her heels into Thor’s broad sides and put him into a gallop in an attempt to stop herself thinking of Juana. The big horse was as much as she could manage but it was some small consolation to know that Robert thought her capable of riding him. She remembered the day they had met, the day he had said Thor was more than she could handle. He had not known her then. Did he know her even now? She had to put the memories, good and bad, behind her. She had to find Wellington and make sure he knew the situation and in return he would arrange for her repatriation. That was all there was to it. She doubted she would ever see Robert again, because his pursuit of Rufus Whitely would be followed by a search for Juana, and whether he succeeded or failed made no difference because he would not come back to her.
Once home, she could pretend it never happened, could expunge it from her mind and lose herself in the social whirl of London society. What a prospect! Talked about, smiled over, everyone concluding that she was in want of a husband, curious about her, appalled by her tanned face and cropped hair. Could she start a new fashion? Why not go the whole hog and dress in breeches with stock and cravat? What a stir that would cause! She leaned back in the saddle and laughed up at the sky. It was all very well to laugh, but it was not funny; especially it was not funny because inside she was as soft and feminine as any woman and she was in love. An impossible love.
She pulled the horse up to a walk. Robert had told her to take care; galloping about like a crazed woman was not taking care. It was not so much her safety as the information she carried which was important. She had better be more alert and ready for danger.
The day wore on; the horse seemed untiring, but she had a headache and she was hungry and thirsty. She stopped at a wayside inn. A bent old man came to the door and bade her enter. ‘We’ve little enough,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously. ‘Some rye bread and a few olives.’
‘That will do admirably.’
‘You do not sound French.’
‘I am not. I am English.’ She looked down at the faded blue coat, which had caught his eye. ‘Oh, this. I found it. I was cold and it is better than nothing.’
He conducted her to the parlour and drew out a chair from the table. ‘You are the first traveller I have seen today.’
‘Is that so?’ She was surprised. ‘Have there been no troops passing through?’
‘Haven’t seen any, not for days.’
‘But I thought Wellington was hereabouts.’
‘Did you, now?’ He was still doubtful about her and unwilling to offer information.
‘I have to find the British lines.’ She paused, wondering if she dared trust him. ‘My husband was killed and I have lost all my belongings…’
‘You have no money?’
‘Oh, I have money, but what can money buy? You say you have no food.’ As she spoke, she delved into her pocket and pulled out her purse which contained the remainder of Philippe’s money in a mixture of currencies. ‘I would give all of this for a good meal and directions to where I can find the British commander-in-chief.’
‘A meal I can give you,’ he said. ‘And wine, but as for the other…’ He turned from her and went into a back room, returning with a plate of gabrito, goat meat braised in oil with tomatoes and garlic. It was not her favourite dish but she was almost hungry enough to eat anything. He brought her a bottle of red wine and a glass and stood watching her eat and drink.
‘How far have you come?’
‘Many leagues,’ she said. ‘From the mountains.’
‘Ahh.’ He gave her a toothless smile. ‘There are mountains on all sides, senhora.’
‘North.’ She paused, wondering how much to tell him. ‘I have been with a compatriot of yours. Martin Davaco. Do you know him?’
‘I have heard of him. He is a fighter.’
‘Are you not all fighters, in your own way? Even you, here in this place all alone, would you too not like to contribute?’ She paused to look up at him. ‘You are a loyal patriot, are you not?’
He attempted to stand up straight but his crooked back prevented it. ‘I am, but I am an old man. What can I do?’
‘You will understand how important it is for Viscount Wellington to know exactly where the main French forces are so that they can be defeated?’
‘And you have that information?’
‘I do, but I need to know where his lordship is.’ She tipped the contents of the purse on to the table and watched his eyes widen in surprise. ‘You can have all of it for good directions.’
‘The English lord was in Gouveia,’ he said, avarice overcoming his doubts. ‘But he rode out from there and along this road to the west a week ago. I saw him myself. He called for wine.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
He shrugged. ‘To the sea, perhaps. I heard tell there were ships ready to take him and his men off. If you want to go with him, you had best make haste.’
She hoped he had not read the situation correctly. She had come to like the Portuguese people, their courage and resilience, their faith and stoicism; she did not want to see them left to Napoleon’s mercy, because that tyrant would have none. They had been a thorn in his side too long. She finished her meal and rose to go. ‘Portugal will be free,’ she said. ‘Do not doubt it.’
She retraced her route to the last crossroads and then turned westwards, alternately cantering and walking, trying not to overtire her mount, but none the less anxious to reach her destination. It seemed that time was running out, that before long the two sides who had been dodging each other for months would come together in a great clash of men and arms, and the information she carried was vital to the outcome.
She stopped only when it became too dark to go on and found an abandoned animal shelter where she lay down and tried to rest. Long before dawn she was on the road again and this time it was a proper highway. She knew it was risky to take to the open road, even more so now because she was almost sure she would have to cross the French lines, but the extra speed she could make was worth the gamble.
She could see lights in the distance and recognised them almost at once as camp fires. She reined in. Could it be the British or even the Portuguese Cacadores, or was it the French advance guard? She approached slowly.
It was a small company of French voltigeurs sent out to reconnoitre the ground. They were camped in an olive grove, lying round their fires or leaning against the trees, still asleep. There were two sentries who should have been patrolling the perimeter, but they were standing together talking in low voices. Thankful it was not the main column, she dismounted and led her horse round them on foot, her pistol in her other hand, alert for every sound. One of the sentries laughed and Thor’s head went up. She grabbed his nose and pulled it down, whispering to him to be silent. By the time it was safe to mount again, she had lost two valuable hours.
Coimbra, an old university town on the Mondego River and once the capital of Portugal, was quiet; a few students in their torn black capes pinned with the coloured ribbons of their faculty strolled about deep in conversation, as if there were no conflict, no battle about to be fought somewhere near at hand. There were citizens going about their business and soldiers from the commissariat gathering together supplies and equipment and loading them into a string of wagons, but not the great army she had hoped to find. Her heart sank. The British commander-in-chief was more elusive than a firefly and it was some time before she could establish that he had ridden north. Did he know that was where the enemy were concentrated? She was desperate for sleep and the horse was exhausted, but she could not stop now. She rode out again and two hours later she caught up with the rear of the British forces.
It took some time to convince them she was English and even longer to persuade them to take her to headquarters. ‘I must speak to Lord Wellington,’ she said. ‘Please tell him I have news of Captain Whitely and Captain Lynmount.’
‘Who are they?’
‘He will know.’
The sentry who had stopped her handed her over to his sergeant who took her to his captain. She repeated her request to speak to Wellington and he echoed the sentry’s question. ‘Whitely and Lynmount. Who are they?’
‘Scouts.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Behind the French lines.’
He looked at her pensively, weighing her up. She looked decidedly disreputable; her hair was a mess and, apart from splashing her face in water from a stream which was freezing cold, she had not washed. She was white-faced with fatigue, she knew, and could hardly sit upright in the saddle. ‘How long have you been riding?’ he asked.
‘Days.’ She laughed. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’ll take you to the women; they will look after you…’
‘I don’t want to go to the women,’ she snapped. ‘And I don’t need looking after. Are you deaf, Captain? I asked to be taken to Viscount Wellington.’
He shrugged. ‘Come with me. I’ll speak to the colonel.’
The colonel was two miles ahead. On the way they passed column after column of troops, cavalry, heavy guns and wagons loaded with supplies and ammunition. The men were cheerful. After so long without confronting the enemy, they were looking forward to a scrap; they had hated the constant withdrawal. Unlike the French, they were neither half-starved nor ill-clad, though she doubted if there were as many of them as there were of the enemy.
From the colonel she was passed to an aide and then another, each time further up the road, until at last she found herself outside the wall surrounding the convent at Bussaco, which was decorated with bones and skulls designed in black and white stones. She shivered as they were challenged by a sentry and then passed through the only gate and up through a beautiful wood of maple, oak, laurel and cypress. At the door of the convent, she dismounted and waited while her latest escort went inside. He returned very quickly.
‘Come with me.’
She left Thor tethered to one of the many trees which surrounded the convent and followed the aide into a narrow cork-lined cell with a brick floor and whitewashed walls. She had seen the great man in the distance before, when he had been reviewing the troops, but never close at hand, and she was surprised at how ordinary he seemed. He was not particularly handsome, but his eyes were keen and his smile set her at her ease. He rose from behind a desk and walked forward to take her hand. ‘Come and sit down, ma’am.’ He waved the aide away, then led her to a bench and sat down beside her. ‘You have news of Captain Lynmount, I understand?’
‘Yes, my lord. He sent me to tell you that the main French column is coming down through Viseu. It is about sixty-five thousand strong.’ She took Robert’s report from her skirt pocket and handed it to him.
He took it and smiled. ‘They must have lost a few on the way.’
‘Indeed, my lord, the guerrilleros and the Ordenanza have been very active and pick them off at every opportunity. The French are also very hungry.’
He smiled. ‘I thought they might be.’ He paused. ‘Where is Captain Lynmount now? Why did he not return himself?’
‘He has gone after Captain Whitely.’
‘Gone after him? But Whitely was sent to find Robert. What happened?. Or are you too tired to tell me now?’
She was puzzled. ‘But my lord, have you not more important things to do? Do you not need to give fresh orders?’
He gave a great whoop of a laugh which startled her. ‘Everything is in hand, have no fear.’
‘You knew all along?’ she said. ‘I have wasted my time and yours?’
‘Not at all, my dear, it is always useful to have confirmation of intelligence and I do want to know what has happened to Captain Lynmount.’
She sat beside him and told him everything. He did not interrupt until she had finished, then he said, ‘You are a very resourceful and courageous young lady, and I salute you.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Now it was all over she was almost dropping asleep where she sat.
‘Go and rest now,’ he said, rising and holding his hand out to her. ‘Major Hamilton will escort you to the palace. They will look after you there. We will talk again tomorrow.’ He raised her to her feet, then clapped his hands and the aide came back in and was instructed to take her to the palace and see she had everything she needed.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She turned to go. ‘Captain Lynmount’s horse, I left him outside…’
‘Thor?’ he said in surprise. ‘You rode that brute?’
‘Yes.’
‘He will be taken care of. Now go before you fall asleep on your feet.’
She was glad to obey. At the palace, once the home of King Manuel, but now appropriated for the use of the high command, she was shown into a room which was the height of luxury. A bath was brought in and filled with hot water and from somewhere, as if by magic, nightclothes were found for her. Major Hamilton was also very resourceful, she decided, as she fell into bed. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Robert. Where was he? Had he found Rufus? And if he had, what had he done with him? And Juana? Would he find her too?
Forget! she commanded herself. Forget and think of England, because that is where you will be going next. Home!
But home was where the heart was, and hers was not in England; it was wherever that enigmatic man decided to settle.
The next day was bright and sunny though a cold wind blew down from the mountains and made the air chill. She rose and breakfasted and went back to the convent. Today arrangements would be made for her to go home; today she would turn her back on war and death, hunger and thirst; today she would borrow some money from one of his lordship’s aides and buy herself some clothes in Coimbra, feminine clothes, and a hat and shoes. Concentrate on that, she told herself, not the love you are leaving behind. It was better that way.
The convent stood on a fork in the road where the chaussée from Viseu climbed to its highest before dropping down to the plains of Coimbra. From just outside its walls, Olivia had a clear view for miles around, to the hills of the west which dipped down to the Atlantic where the evacuation fleet stood by, and to the east where Masséna’s glittering columns could be seen making their way towards them, mile upon mile of foot soldiers, cavalry with coloured plumes bobbing in the sun, horses, guns, wagons, mules and camp followers. They could be seen winding their way along every road, through the pine trees of the forests, across the heather-covered hills.
‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ She heard Wellington’s barking laugh behind her.
She turned towards him. ‘Yes, my lord. Frightening too.’
‘Oh, there is no need for that, my dear; we shall lick them, never fear.’
‘But I can see so few allied troops.’
‘They are there just the same, behind that ridge, silent and waiting.’ He pointed to a long hogback of a hill running north to south. ‘Let Johnny Bluecoat come on, let him think we are withdrawing once again; he will learn differently tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow, my lord?’
‘Yes. They will try to climb that ridge and they will be repulsed.’ He laughed again, this imperturbable man who commanded the devotion of officers and men alike. ‘Soult has brought up his army from the south to join Masséna and they think they have outmanoeuvred me, but they will see that I can move troops faster than they can. My southern army is in place on my flank.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now to our business, eh?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
He took her arm and strolled with her along the paths through the wood, past streams and fountains, shrines and statues. She was aware that two of his officers followed discreetly behind them. ‘I must thank you once again for bringing me news, but what I need most is Captain Robert Lynmount himself.’
‘But he was cashiered, my lord, he is no longer a soldier.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! Major Hamilton tells me those two men, his so-called accomplices, have been persuaded to tell the truth. The verdict of the court-martial has been reversed. But that is of little consequence.’ He paused to look closely at her. She had still not recovered from her exhaustion, but no matter, she was strong. ‘Now I am going to ask a great favour of you.’
‘Will you go back for me?’
‘Back, my lord?’
‘Yes, back. Take a message to that foolish man. I have work for him, urgent work, and he will listen to you.’
She doubted that and said so, which made him laugh. ‘You do not know your own powers, my dear.’
‘But I do not know where to find him, not exactly. He might be at São Jorge, or Villa de Fuentes, Salamanca even, anywhere at all.’
‘I would wish him in Santander.’
‘My lord?’ She did not understand. ‘I thought you wished him back here?’
‘No time for that. He is to go at once to Santander and meet a courier from Rothschild in Paris. He will be given a consignment of gold. I have to pay this army of mine and without gold I cannot do it. ’Tis no good relying on London.’
She knew her mouth was hanging open, but every time she shut it he made another pronouncement which made it drop again. ‘My lord, I do not understand. How can you have communication with Paris? And Santander is…’
‘Deep in French-held Spain. I know it. Now, will you do it? I will give you sealed orders which he will not dare to disobey, but if you are caught with them on you…’
He did not finish; there was no need to elaborate. ‘Will you go? I will send someone to go with you, someone entirely trustworthy.’ He turned and beckoned to one of the men behind him. Olivia gasped aloud when she saw that it was Father Peredo. Wellington’s loud laugh rang in her ears; he certainly enjoyed a joke. ‘I believe you know the good father?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ She held out her hand to the priest as he came hurrying towards them.
‘Well done, my child,’ he said, grasping her hand in both his own.
‘How did you get here?’ she asked.
‘I rode, just as you did.’
While they made their way back to the convent, he told her that he had been an agent for the British since the Battle of Vimeiro in 1808. When they had left after that, he had bided his time, gathering intelligence, convinced that they would return.
‘And well it was that he did,’ murmured his lordship. ‘He has been invaluable.’
‘I usually send messages through scouts like Robert, but this time I was afraid Robert would not get through and decided to come myself,’ Father Peredo went on. ‘I arrived a week ago but tomorrow I set off again for Villa de Fuentes.’ He paused and looked into her face. ‘If you have any love in your heart for that man of yours, you will come with me.’
‘You speak of love for a man; why not love of country?’
He smiled. ‘That too.’
‘You will go with the father?’ Wellington asked.
She nodded agreement; there was no need even to think about it, but she was not at all sure they would be able to find Robert and, if they did, whether he would be pleased to see her.
That night the British and Portuguese forces were forbidden to light fires. They ate a cold meal and lay down behind the crest of the hill in total darkness and uncanny silence, knowing that next day there would be a great battle.
Olivia, waking at dawn, rose from the massive four-poster and went to the window. The town and the surrounding hills were blanketed by fog. She washed and dressed quickly, gathered together her few belongings and went out in the chill air to the spot where the day before they had watched the approaching French columns. Now they could see nothing of either side. Father Peredo was waiting for her, already mounted and once more dressed in clerical robes. There was someone with him, riding a small pony and holding Thor by the reins. It was Pedro.
She greeted him joyfully and sprang into the saddle. There would be no shopping in Coimbra, no voyage to London, no gossips to face, no long and lonely widowhood; she was going to find Robert. The slate had been wiped clean and he could, with honour, return to his regiment. Most of all, he must be made to see that Juana was not the woman for him, that there was someone nearer at hand, someone he had overlooked, someone whose life was not worth a farthing without him. She, who had always said he needed her, needed him with every tingling nerve, every fibre of her body, every thought in her head. Theirs had been no chance encounter; it had been ordained.
They turned their horses south to make a wide detour round the battlefield, feeling their way through the fog. Behind them the sound of gunfire told them that the skirmishers had made contact and there would be no more withdrawing. The long-awaited battle was about to begin.
‘He was riding Pegasus,’ Martin Davaco explained. ‘He told the look-outs that he had come from you and had news for us. We thought something had happened to you and the senhora…’ He paused. ‘We asked him, “What has happened?”, but he did not answer; instead he raised his gun and shot one of my men.’ The partisan leader was still seething. ‘We should have put an end to his miserable life when we first captured him…’
‘I am sorry, that was my fault,’ Robert said. After he had left Olivia he had made for a company of French cavalry he had seen earlier when reconnoitring but, after carefully skirting all round them, he had concluded Rufus had not joined them. His efforts had not been entirely wasted because he had been able to steal a horse from their lines, laughing as he rode away with it. The next day he had picked up Whitely’s trail because of Pegasus — the grey was easily remembered — and after that it had been easy to follow him back to São Jorge.
‘Now he will die in torment…’ Martin was saying.
‘Why did you not kill him at the time?’
‘He had friends…’
‘French soldiers?’
‘No, English deserters, about six or seven of them. While he was talking to us, they had rounded up all the women and children and took them to the church. They threatened…’ He stopped. ‘The price of releasing them was the loot we had taken off him and two days’ start. It was a small price to pay.’ He sounded almost apologetic.
‘Which way did he go?’
The man shrugged. ‘We searched for days but could find no trace of him or his men. We think they crossed the border into the mountains of Spain.’
Robert thanked him and rode on. Rufus Whitely was on his way to Salamanca to join Juana, he was sure of it. He wanted revenge. He savoured the idea as he took the mountain roads over the border and into Spain. Revenge would be sweet. It was because of Rufus Whitely that he had lost his right to call himself an officer and a gentleman. It was because of Rufus Whitely that he had been forced to send Olivia away. The thought of Olivia riding alone into heaven knew what danger nearly drove him mad. But he could not have brought her with him. He smiled wryly; she would have spent the entire time arguing with him that what he was doing was wrong.
Her apparent hardness was no more than a shell but a difficult one to crack open; once or twice he had caught a glimpse of the inner Olivia, the vulnerable, insecure woman, and it always made him want to take her in his arms and promise her anything, anything in the world, if only she would allow him to take care of her. But inevitably something happened to close her off from him again and most of it his fault. Her sharp manner concealed the tenderness of someone who could feel for others; she had proved that with her concern for the women and children of Villa de Fuentes and the way she had stayed to help him when all she had ever wanted was to go home.
She would be on her way home now. One day, someone somewhere would succeed in piercing that shell and reaching the soft heart of her and he envied the unknown man.
He wished they had met in different circumstances, in London perhaps, before the war, with his father beaming in pleasure and Olivia looking all woman, softly swathed in silk, her figure with a few more curves than it had now, her hair caught up at the back of her head and falling softly to her shoulders… No, her hair should be just as it was now — a golden halo, nothing more. He would have left her behind when he came to war, secure in the knowledge that when he returned she would be there waiting for him and she would never have known the horror of violent death, of hunger, of searing heat or freezing winds.
He stopped himself suddenly. The woman he had been describing to himself had not been Olivia, not the real Olivia; the real Olivia’s character had been shaped by what she had been through and it was the real Olivia he loved, her independence, her resourcefulness, her cheerfulness, her sheer perversity. That was Olivia.
She was worth her weight in gold, worth more than a hundred Juanas, worth more than the satisfaction of a hollow revenge, more than the bringing to justice of a traitor who, when all was said and done, had failed. What was the good of winning back his claws if he could not sheath them? Claws only hurt the people you touched; better to be without them. The sound of his laughter echoed round the mountains, bouncing from peak to peak, as he turned his horse back the way he had come.
Days and days they had been travelling, Olivia, Father Peredo and Pedro, with no sign of Robert. He had stopped at São Jorge, they had established that, and he had been mounted, but then nothing. Now they were approaching Villa de Fuentes and all Olivia’s hopes were pinned on finding him there. She told herself that her impatience was due to her errand, that Wellington depended on her and the courier would not stay in Santander indefinitely, all of which was true, but, more than that, she wanted to find Robert before he reached Salamanca.
They rode over the new bridge and along the village street, with all the inhabitants crowding out of their houses to welcome their priest. They did not like it when he was away; he was crucial to their lives; he stood between them and their oppressors. It was not until after everyone had eaten and drunk and given thanks for the father’s safe return that they were able to ask about Robert and then they were told that nothing had been seen of him.
‘The other one, we have seen,’ one of the women said. ‘The other Englishman. He was here two days ago with others…’
‘Others?’ queried Olivia, knowing she was referring to Rufus. ‘How many?’
‘Englishmen, about seven of them. He told us they were on a secret mission.’
‘Which way did they go?’
She pointed into the mountains. ‘That way.’
‘We must get after them,’ Olivia said.
‘Where is Miguel Santandos?’ Father Peredo asked. ‘We need his help.’
‘He has been away a long time,’ an old man said. ‘He left his command to José Gonzales, but yesterday he came back. He went after them, swearing to avenge his wife’s murder.’
‘Alone?’ Father Peredo asked.
‘He forbade anyone to follow him.’
‘Get the men,’ the priest ordered Pedro. ‘Tell them to gather on the bridge by the monastery. I will meet them there.’ He turned to Olivia. ‘You wait in the village until we come back. We will resume the search for Captain Lynmount when this is done.’
Olivia did not argue, neither did she obey; she simply mounted Thor and followed him. Knowing it would be useless, he did not send her back.
They were approaching the monastery when they heard gunfire. Father Peredo dismounted and went forward on foot, dodging from tree to rock and rock to bush, with Olivia following, her rifle at the ready. A few moments later they came within sight of the building and found themselves behind Whitely and his band of desperadoes who were trying to cross the bridge to reach the safety of the high peaks and now found themselves pinned down by fire from the building. Olivia crept closer to Father Peredo.
‘Is it Don Santandos?’ she whispered, looking up at the stout walls. ‘Could it be Robert? Or both of them?’
‘No. There is only one gun and I saw a glimpse of Miguel at a window.’
‘Where are our men?’
He looked towards the bridge. It was empty, almost inviting the deserters to cross. ‘Pedro must have had trouble finding them. They will come.’
‘We cannot wait for them,’ she said, raising her rifle. ‘If Rufus Whitely realises Don Santandos is alone, he will storm the monastery, and one man cannot keep so many at bay.’
He turned and grinned at her and loaded his own weapon, an ancient musket which was normally hung on the wall of his living-room as a reminder that war was an evil thing. ‘Come on, then, let us join the fun.’ Coming as they did, from the rear, they forced the attackers to turn and defend themselves. They dashed from cover to cover, reloading alternately and using pistols as well as her rifle and his musket; it made it seem as if there were more than two of them. The ruse would not serve for long and Olivia found herself praying that Pedro had found the guerrillas and they were even now approaching the bridge from the other side.
A shriek told her that one of the men had been hit, though whose shot it had been she was not at all sure. In a way she hoped it had not been hers; in spite of her prowess with a gun, the idea of killing anyone was abhorrent. All she wanted to do was render them harmless. If she and Father Peredo could keep pushing forward, they could herd them all back to the building where Don Santandos was still firing.
The priest had advanced several yards. She reloaded and followed him, passing the body of the man who had been hit. It was Rufus Whitely himself. She did not want to look at him and hurried past, eyes averted.
A noise immediately behind her startled her. She swung round to see Rufus Whitely getting to his feet. He had a demoniacal grin on his face as he came towards her. She raised her rifle, but she could not fire; her finger seemed frozen to the trigger and would not move. He reached out and wrenched the gun from her hand, but instead of turning it on her he grabbed her and held her close to his chest. Don Santandos dared not fire at him for fear of hitting her.
‘Thought I was dead, did you?’ he said with a short laugh of derision as he marched her forward. ‘Rufus Whitely is not that easy to kill.’ He shouted to his men, ‘I’ve got the girl, you get the preacher. Keep the one in the monastery covered.’
She was forced to watch as Father Peredo was surrounded and disarmed, but not before he had downed two of them. It made them angry but Rufus would not let them kill the priest, or her. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘We need them. Fetch their horses.’
Thor proved troublesome, much to Olivia’s delight, but they brought them both up at last and put them with their own mounts, a handful of bedraggled horses and a few mules — except for one. Olivia was delighted to see Pegasus, though he was in poor condition and she concluded he had been ridden hard. The sight of him put new life into her; they were not beaten yet. She remained alert for an opportunity of turning the tables on the bandits as they forced her, Father Peredo and the animals towards the bridge, using them as shields while Don Santandos watched helplessly from the monastery windows.
A shot from among the boulders on the other side of the bridge spattered into the road ahead of them. Thor reared up, snorting his terror. The man who was leading him could not hold him and he galloped over the bridge and up into the hills. His going panicked the other animals and they began to mill round in the road, rearing and whinnying. In the confusion no one noticed Olivia slip away and dash back towards the monastery. Miguel Santandos, who had seen her coming, ran down to meet her and thrust a gun into her hand. ‘Who was that shooting from the other side?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t see, probably one of your men. Father Peredo sent Pedro to find them.’
‘Pick them off,’ he said, firing as he spoke. ‘And let’s have no more of your woman’s squeamishness.’ He reloaded as she fired. ‘Watch out for the father.’
Father Peredo, more agile than she had ever seen him, had thrown himself over the parapet of the bridge. She did not see how he could survive the dive towards the water so far below and his unthinking courage gave her the spur she needed to continue firing and reloading and firing again. The bandits, caught on the bridge, were being shot at from both sides and several of them dropped, but she did not pause to consider who had felled them; Don Santandos was right — it was no time to begin behaving like a woman.
Whitely’s force was down to three men besides himself before they surrendered, and not a moment too soon; Olivia and Don Santandos were out of ammunition. She walked forward with the guerrilla, holding the empty gun in front of her; their adversaries were not to know she could not fire. She almost dropped it when she saw Robert come out from behind a rock on the far side of the bridge and walk towards them. He was, she noted as she cried his name, wearing his red coat again. Held together with cross-belts, it still had no buttons on it, but he was wearing it with pride.
She was about to fling her weapon away and run towards him when she heard Don Santandos chuckle beside her. ‘Now is not the time to be a woman either, señora. Keep your place and keep your eyes open.’
Slowly, oh, so slowly, she approached the bridge, while her head whirled. What should she say to him? What would he say to her? She should be miles away on the high seas on the way to England, he should be in Salamanca with Juana. She had been searching for him without any real hope of finding him and now he was here, here where he had first met her. She watched him coming nearer. His face was drawn with fatigue, his hazel eyes clouded, the lines about his mouth a little deeper, but he was smiling. Soon he would be able to reach out a hand and touch her. Her body tingled with anticipation.
Rufus Whitely, standing with the remnants of his men, suddenly produced a pistol from his belt and raised it to his shoulder. Olivia heard the sharp report of a gun going off at the same instant as she hurled herself at Robert and dragged him to the ground. They lay sprawled together, clinging to each other, unable to believe they were both still alive, but she could feel the beating of his heart against her ear and he could see the soft rise and fall of her breasts as she tried to regain her breath. Both laughed aloud with the joy of it. Only when she rolled off him and sat up did she realise it had not been Rufus Whitely who had fired but Don Santandos. The guerrilla leader had saved one bullet, knowing exactly what he meant to do with it. Rufus Whitely lay dead at his feet.
Robert scrambled to his feet and bent towards her, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘Of all the foolhardy things to do,’ he said sharply, knowing how close she had come to being shot in the back in her effort to save him and unable to express his concern in any other way. ‘You could have been killed…’
Still laughing, she took his proffered hand and found herself standing in his arms. ‘But I was not,’ she retorted. ‘Robert, I…’ The laughter suddenly turned to tears. Sobs of relief and remorse at the killing, of love and despair shook her slight frame and she could not stop them. She wept uncontrollably. ‘Robert.’ She could find no other words.
He held her close against him, cradling her head into his shoulder and stroking the back of it with a hand that shook. ‘Don’t cry, my darling, don’t cry,’ he murmured. It was so unlike her to burst into tears that he did not know what to do. He felt big and awkward and completely inadequate. ‘It is all over now.’
She leaned back and lifted a tear-streaked face to him. ‘All over,’ she repeated, then suddenly laughed. ‘What is all over?’
‘That.’ He jerked his head back towards the killing ground.
‘Oh, and what about your claws?’
‘I have decided I do not need claws. I will go home with you.’
‘And Juana?’
‘That is most decidedly over and done with. I have known that since the day I met you.’ He smiled. ‘There is no one quite like you and I love you more dearly than I know how to say.’
‘You do?’
‘Didn’t you realise that?’
‘How could I? You never gave so much as a hint. Come to think of it,’ she added, ‘you didn’t have much to say at all about how you really felt. Strong and silent, that’s you.’
‘I did not want a put-down.’
‘A put-down!’ Her laughter rang out, startling the prisoners who had been tied up by Don Santandos and were morosely watching him round up the horses. ‘Oh, Robert, how comical you are!’
‘Being laughed at is worse than a put-down,’ he said, pretending hurt.
She was immediately serious. ‘Oh, my darling, I am not laughing at you, I am laughing at my own stupidity. Married twice before and still I have not learned that a man sometimes needs a push in the right direction. I longed for you to tell me you loved me.’
‘You said you would not marry again, you said you had done with men.’
‘That was before I met you and fell in love for the very first time.’
‘But I tried to ask you to marry me and you stopped me. You would not let me go on.’
‘It would have been for the wrong reason. I did not want you to marry me out of duty. I wanted you to say it was because you loved me.’
‘I am saying it. Like this.’ He bent his head to kiss her. They forgot where they were, forgot the prisoners watching them in sullen silence, forgot the dead Rufus and the faithless Juana, forgot Tom and Philippe, forgot everything except the pleasure of that kiss and the promise of more delights to come. He did not want to release her, afraid she would disappear on the wind that sighed down the pass and rustled the leaves of the trees.
‘In truth, this will never do,’ said a voice which sounded uncommonly like Father Peredo’s. ‘I advised you before to do something about your unholy liaison but now I really must insist on it.’
She twisted out of Robert’s arms and flung herself at the priest. ‘Father, you are alive! I thought…’
‘Clung to the struts,’ he said. ‘Climbed down and then came up the path. Now, what is the state of the play?’
‘Four dead and three prisoners,’ Miguel answered him. ‘And Lolita is avenged.’
‘And Robert loves me,’ Olivia said, laughing with the sheer joy of it.
The priest turned to her and cocked one eyebrow. ‘So what’s new?’
‘You knew?’ She was astonished.
‘It seems everyone but you knew it,’ he said laconically. ‘Now, I think a wedding before you go on, don’t you?’ He paused. ‘Has the good captain been told of his next assignment?’
‘Next assignment?’ Robert queried.
‘Now, you did not suppose this young lady came all the way back from Bussaco with me just for the pleasure of being kissed, do you?’
Robert turned from the priest to Olivia; it had only just occurred to him to wonder why Olivia was in Spain when he had supposed her to be crossing the Bay of Biscay, if not actually back in England. Had he misunderstood her yet again? ‘Why did you come back?’
She laughed. ‘Father Peredo was right — for the pleasure of a kiss.’ She watched the changing expressions cross his face, then added, ‘And because I was asked to find you by Viscount Wellington himself. It had been Captain Whitely’s mission, but he failed to complete it. I have orders for you.’
‘What orders?’
‘Number one.’ She held up her hand with one finger pointing skywards. ‘You must marry me tomorrow.’
‘That is one order it will be a pleasure to obey.’
‘Number two,’ she went on, holding up a second finger. ‘You are to proceed forthwith to Santander and there meet with a representative of Lord Rothschild who will give you gold for the army’s coffers.’
He groaned. ‘Just when I thought I was going back to England with you. It really is most unfair.’
‘Three,’ she said, ignoring his protests, ‘you are to report back to his lordship to have the verdict of the court-martial rescinded and promotion to major confirmed. That is,’ she added with a twinkle in her eye which warned him to be on his guard, ‘that is if we come safely back from Santander with the gold…’
‘We?’ he yelled. ‘We? What are you talking about, woman? If you think…’
‘I go with you.’
‘Oh, no, you do not! You will go back to England and wait for me like a good wife. God knows I do not want to part from you…’
‘Then don’t.’
‘You could be killed. We both could.’
‘So, in the words of the good father, what’s new? It could have happened any time in the last two months and I did not hear you complaining about the danger then.’ She laughed suddenly and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his nose. ‘I will not leave you. You know perfectly well you cannot manage without me…’
He sighed, knowing he had lost, but he took pleasure in the defeat. What he would have done if she had conceded, he did not know. He did not want to go anywhere without her, now or ever. She was all woman, argumentative, provocative creature that she was, and he would not have her any other way.