Beyond the Sunrise (26 page)

He supposed afterward that it all happened within a few seconds. So much happened. At the time it seemed to go on forever, as if time had been slowed to one-tenth its usual speed.

Before he knew what was about to happen, long before he could do anything to prevent it, Joana had scrambled to her feet so that she was in full view of the horsemen below, and she was waving both arms above her head.

Before she opened her mouth—and she shrieked at almost the same moment as she jumped up—he knew what she was going to say and he understood what was happening.

“Marcel!” she shrieked. “I am here. It is Jeanne. Marcel!”

And she was back down behind the bushes, pulling feverishly at her musket before Captain Blake reacted.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, and he threw himself on her, knocking the gun from her hands, catching at her wrists and twisting them behind her back without any thought to gentleness. “You vixen. You devil!”

“No!” she cried, her voice frantic. “Give me my gun. Give me my gun, Robert. I have to kill him. Oh, please, you don't understand. I have to kill him.”

Rifles were firing from both sides of them. The horsemen must be coming up the hill. He did not look to see. He rolled her over onto her stomach, dragging her belt from her waist, and bound her hands as he had on a previous occasion. There was no point in a gag this time, even if it had been possible to gag her with his handkerchief fluttering halfway down the hill.

“And don't even think of using your legs,” he said from between his teeth, rolling to her side again and grabbing for his rifle. “You
are like to find one of them broken. You have probably got us all killed.”

Some of them, he saw, had ventured up the hill, Colonel Marcel Leroux in the lead. But the riflemen of the British army did not have their deadly reputation for nothing. Two of the horsemen were down and their horses running loose, and the others were clearly hesitant. Attacking a group of riflemen uphill was much like committing suicide, even if they could be sure that there were not hundreds or even thousands of silent troops awaiting them over the crest of the hill.

Joana did not stop pleading with him, though he did not listen. Most of her words went over his head.

“Please, Robert . . . oh, please . . . you must trust me. I must kill him . . . I have waited three years for this moment . . .”

Colonel Leroux was the last to retreat to the valley. His men had withdrawn behind them and stood their horses uncertainly in the valley. But it would have been unnecessary madness to attack. Even Colonel Leroux must have realized that. It was doubtless only Joana's presence at the top of the hill that held him there so long, motionless even though he was well within range of the notoriously accurate rifles.

Finally he turned his horse and joined his men in the valley. A minute later they were returning the way they had come, taking their two wounded with them.

Joana had told him once, Captain Blake reflected, that her knowledge of profane vocabulary was lamentably small. One would not have thought so for the next minute or so. She swore with blistering venom in a grand mixture of English, French, and Portuguese.

“You!” Captain Blake turned on her, his eyes blazing fire, his voice contrastingly icy. “You could not have shot me in the back, could you? You had to endanger all these innocent men. And, yes, those men too. Two of them were injured, perhaps badly. Did you notice that? Merely so that you could make a theatrical gesture for the benefit of your French lover?”

“I hate you.” All the frenzied anger had gone from her voice and
her eyes and her body. She lay facedown on the ground, her head turned his way, and looked up at him with lifeless eyes. “I will never forgive you for this, Robert. Never.”

And then other green-clad figures, each clutching a rifle, his comrades, came running and sliding down the hill toward them.

“It has been so long, I wouldn't have thought to recognize you, sir.”

“Who could fail to recognize that crooked nose?”

“Trust you to have a whole company of French cavalry at your heels, you bastard, and to survive it.”

“Nice to see you again, sir. There are bets on as to whether you will make it back for the battle or not.”

“I'm certainly glad I bet on you, sir.”

“You have all the fun, you bastard. I bet the story behind this one would fill a book. Where is she going? Christ Almighty!” Captain Rowlandson had had a good look at Joana. “She's the marquesa, Bob.” His eyes were almost popping out of his head.

Joana was walking slowly up the hill, her hands still tied behind her back.

“She won't get far,” Captain Blake said grimly. “She is French.”

All the riflemen were gazing after Joana with fascination.

Captain Rowlandson whistled. “French?” he said.

“Your prisoner, Bob? Well, I always knew you had all the luck. Where the hell have you been?”

“Where I am going is more important,” Captain Blake said. “The army is making a stand up ahead?”

The captain grinned at him. “Wait until you see it, Bob,” he said. “It's a beaut. Johnny will surrender after one look at it. They thought this was an uphill battle! It's a good thing we were out on patrol in this direction, by the way. Are you coming back with us?”

“I have a few things to do first, Ned,” Captain Blake said. “But I'll be there. I would not miss this battle for worlds.” He was
squinting up to the top of the hill. Joana had disappeared. “I have to go. I'll see you fellows within the next few days. And thank you.”

Noisy comments and friendly profanities followed him to the top of the hill.

She had not gone far. There was a pile of large boulders partway down the other side of the hill. She was seated on one of the lower ones, her arms pulled tightly behind her, her head bent forward so that her forehead rested almost on her knees.

By God, Captain Blake thought, striding down toward her, he would have to be careful not to kill her. What he wanted to do was give her a good sound thrashing.

*   *   *

She
was not running away. She did not know quite where she was going. She sank down onto the boulder without even consciously choosing the spot. She tried to move her arms and remembered that they were tied. She did not struggle. She let her head fall forward until it almost touched her knees.

It was against her nature to despair. Very rarely was she even depressed. To Joana there was almost always hope, almost always something she could do. She was not a person to admit defeat—normally.

But she admitted it now. Total defeat. Total despair. There had been all those journeys into Spain, in among the French, looking always for one face. And she had found it finally and made her plans. Plans that were far too clever and far too unlikely to succeed. She could see that now. She should have killed him in Salamanca. She must have had dozens of chances there.

She had had another chance ten minutes before. The perfect chance. The one she had dreamed of. And she had failed again because of her own cleverness. She had had several weeks in which to
get Robert to believe her story. She could have done it easily. As recently as the evening before, she could have done it. She had sensed then that he had been on the brink of believing her. But no, she had never liked anything to be too easy. She had enjoyed teasing him, keeping him in doubt.

And so she could not blame him for what had just happened, even though she had told him that she hated him and that she would never forgive him. Of course, hearing her yell out like that and seeing her grab her gun like that would have forced him to pounce on her, wrestle the gun from her, and bind her hands. She could not blame him.

And so it was all over. Her chance to avenge Maria's and Miguel's deaths and those of Miguel's family. All over. And all through her own fault. Joana sank deeper into despair. And she watched, fascinated and puzzled, as large drops of water fell onto her knees and darkened the fabric of her dress. She was crying! Misery washed over her.

She did not hear him come up. She saw his boots, a little apart from each other, to one side of her. She knew that soon she would be ashamed of herself and furiously angry with him for having witnessed her misery. But at the moment she was too miserable to care.

She felt hands at her back, deftly freeing her from the bonds of her own belt. She let her hands fall limply to her sides.

“Joana,” he said. His voice was as gentle as the hand that came to rest on the top of her head. “I am sorry.”

She sniffed and was aware that her nose was dripping as well as her eyes.

“I am a spy,” he said, “and therefore deal in the business of deceit. I can hardly blame you for doing the same. And I can hardly blame you for being on the opposite side from me. Your father is French and he works for the French government. And you love him. I am sorry that this has had to happen to you. But this is war and I cannot let you go. You were so close just now. I'm sorry.”

She sniffed again.

“Perhaps the wars will be over soon,” he said. “You will be able to go home and marry your Colonel Leroux.”

“Robert,” she said, “you are so very blind.” But her voice sounded abject. She was ashamed of it. “So bloody blind,” she said a little more caustically.

“You would have me believe that you really wanted to kill him?” He came down on his haunches and peered up into her face. “But that makes no sense. Why would you want to do that?”

“It does not matter,” she said. “You would not believe me anyway.”

“Try me,” he said.

“I did not want to kill him,” she said irritably. “I wanted to kill you so that he would admire me and love me more. Or perhaps I did want to kill him. Perhaps I am offended that he did not prevent my being taken as a hostage. Or perhaps he insulted me in Salamanca. Perhaps he was dallying with me when he already has a wife and I found out. Jealousy can create murderers, you know.”

“Looking into your face is like looking at the surface of a shield, you know,” he said. “How well do I know you, Joana? Do I know everything? Or do I know nothing? I begin to suspect the latter.”

She rubbed at her nose with the back of one hand. “Your shocked friend below the hill should see me now,” she said. “I look worse than a fright, don't I?”

“You do rather,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “A gentleman would be pouring out reassuring compliments, Robert.”

“Would he?” he said. “But you would know that they were all lies. You lost my handkerchief.”

“Then I shall just have to sniff and use the back of my hand,” she said.

He drew a rather dirty-looking rag from his pack. “I wrap the muzzle of my rifle with it when it rains,” he said. “To keep it dry. You are welcome to it.”

She took it from him. “I wonder if there are any lower depths to
which I can sink,” she said, drying her eyes and blowing her nose firmly. “I have not bathed in four days or washed my hair or my clothes in a week. I must . . . stink.”

“If you were your usual perfumed self,” he said with a grin, “you would not be able to stomach me within twenty yards of you, Joana. Perfumes are much overrated, you know.”

“And soap too?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I would probably sell your musket for a bar right now,” he said, and drew a laugh from her. “That is better. I thought that I had lost you.”

“I thought you would have been pleased to see me in tears and defeat,” she said. “It is what you have always wanted, is it not?”

His smile faded. “I don't want to see your spirit broken, Joana,” he said. “These past weeks would have been very dull if you had not been . . . you.”

“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “that was almost a declaration of love after all, Robert. Is that as close as you will get?”

“It was a declaration of respect,” he said quietly, straightening up too.

She sighed. “This is almost over, is it not?” she said. “I will be sorry. But then, all good things come to an end, just as bad things do. And life goes on. Where do we go now?”

“A zigzag trail to Bussaco,” he said, “to make sure we have not missed anyone.”

“Lead the way, then,” she said. “I am still your prisoner, it seems, but a woman never had a more desirable jailer, I believe. There will still be one more night, Robert? Perhaps two? I am going to make you remember these nights more than all the others put together. I promise.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “I hope that not everything you say is a lie, Joana.”

She laughed. “You will find out,” she said. “Tonight. And if I have told the truth about this, then perhaps I have told the truth about everything, Robert. By tomorrow morning you will be
tortured by doubts—again—and by guilt. For by tomorrow morning you will be all the way in love with me.”

She challenged him with her dazzling smile. Although he never responded openly to it as all other men of her acquaintance had always done, she knew instinctively that it had had its effect.

B
Y
late afternoon Captain Blake realized that they had walked farther north than they needed to go. They had called at a cluster of houses, too few in number to be dignified by the name of village, and found the inhabitants either gone or on the point of leaving. It seemed that their own people had been there before him, members of the Ordenanza. Nevertheless he decided to continue yet another couple of miles farther north before looping back south again into what would more definitely be the path of the French advance. One of the villagers had mentioned a farm farther north.

“We will rest soon,” he told Joana, “and make our way to Mortagoa tomorrow. We will spend one more night there if it is still safe to do so, and then finally we will get behind British lines.”

“And I will stay there safely until the end of the great battle,” she said with a sigh, “and you will go out in front of it with your riflemen. It is not fair, Robert. Life is not fair to women.”

“Or to men,” he said. “Depending on which way you look at it.”

“The way that men look at it is the only way that counts,” she said. “Men believe that women like to be protected and kept safe from all harm.”

“And they do not?” he asked her.

“Bah!” was all she would say.

And then, almost before they could lapse into silence, they were both reaching for the sky after Captain Blake had sent his guns clattering to the ground, and they were surrounded by men variously armed, most of them grinning.

“Captain Robert Blake of the Rifles, English army,” Captain Blake said loudly and distinctly in Portuguese, cursing himself for walking like a novice into an ambush.

“And the woman?” one of the men asked, jerking his head in Joana's direction.

“The mar—” he began.

But she interrupted him. “Joana Ribeiro, sister of Duarte Ribeiro,” she said. “And unarmed, you imbeciles. Since when have you begun ambushing your own allies and countrywomen?”

“Jesus!” Captain Blake muttered. There was a curved and wicked-looking knife pointed right at his stomach, no more than four feet off, and a woman beside him who was almost openly inviting its owner to make use of it.

The small, wiry man who appeared to be the leader of the group grinned and looked about at his men, who lowered their weapons. Captain Blake dared to draw breath again.

“The English are all fools,” the man said. “They wear scarlet uniforms and expect to blend into the countryside. Almost all the English, at least. Some are sensible enough to wear green. I was not sure, Captain. My apologies.”

One of his men picked up both the rifle and the musket and handed them, grinning, to Captain Blake.

News and plans were exchanged during the following hour as the two newcomers shared an evening meal with the Portuguese.

“The French will stay at Viseu for a day or two,” the leader told them, “and then they will march west through Mortagoa to Bussaco, where the English and our own army will be waiting for them. It will be a massacre—our own men will have the heights.”

It seemed that the men were heading for Viseu that night to harass the French in any way they could. When the army marched from the city, then the Ordenanza would be on their tails as they had been all the way from the border, doing as much damage as they
could, trying to prevent their enemy from organizing properly for the battle ahead.

“There is no point in staying up here,” one of the men said. “We are too far north to clap eyes on a single Frenchman. We will miss all the fun. You should come with us, Englishman.”

Captain Blake smiled. “My way lies toward the army,” he said, “via Mortagoa.”

“Ah, yes,” the leader said. “That is where Duarte Ribeiro and several of his men live. And their women. The lady will wish to rejoin her kinfolk.” He nodded at Joana. “And I daresay Ribeiro will miss the fun for the next day or two. He will be busy moving everyone out ahead of the French. That is your job too, Captain?”

The group of Portuguese were heading south without further delay. But their leader stopped and looked thoughtfully at Captain Blake and Joana before he left.

“I have a small farm and a house not far away,” he said, nodding off to the northwest. “I have not burned it, since it is not on the route of the French army, though I have sent my wife and mother and my children away with everyone else just to be on the safe side. You are welcome to stay there for the night, Captain.” He grinned. “I did not consider it necessary to lock the doors.”

“Thank you.” Captain Blake stood to watch the men on their way. “We might just do that.”

And the men were gone about their appointed task, a spring in their step, their spirits high now that they were about to get their hands on at least some of the hated enemy at last.

“Well.” Captain Blake looked down at Joana, who still sat, her hands clasped about her knees. “Do you want a roof over your head tonight, Joana? It is going to be a chilly night.”

“It is so real, is it not?” she said. “The might of France not far to our left, the strength of England and Portugal not far to our right. Battle is inevitable. All within days. No longer weeks, but days. So many men are going to die. Thousands. And perhaps you too, Robert. Are you afraid of dying?”

“Yes,” he said as she looked up at him. “I have yet to meet the person, man or woman, who is not. But it is something that we must all do sooner or later. It would be foolish to live our lives in fear of it. It will come when it comes.”

“Ah,” she said, smiling faintly. “A fatalist. I hope you do not die in this battle.”

“Thank you,” he said. “So do I.”

“Yes.” She got to her feet and smiled more fully up into his face. “A roof over our heads, please, Robert. A whole house to ourselves with no one else there at all. We can play house. Shall we?”

“We will spend the night there,” he said, “and leave early in the morning.”

“But it is still only early evening.” She set her fingertips against his chest. “Robert, let us play house for a few hours. Let's find this house and pretend it is ours. Let's go inside and shut out the world and pretend that the whole world is inside with us. Just for a few hours, shall we? We will pretend that we are a very ordinary couple very much in love. Are you good at pretending? But of course you are. You are a good spy. I saw that in Salamanca. Will you pretend this with me?”

“Joana,” he said, looking down into her eager, beautiful face, “we are in a dangerous place at a dangerous time. We are in the middle of a war. We are on opposite sides.”

“And I am your prisoner,” she said. “You forgot to add that detail. Play house with me for one night. For one night let's treat each other just as we would do if nothing else existed or mattered in the whole wide world but the two of us. Will you?”

“Joana—” he said, but she set three fingers over his lips.

“When you say my name like that,” she said, “I know you are going to say something stuffy and sensible. Tomorrow or the next
day we will be parted. Perhaps we will never meet again.
Probably
we will never meet again. We have been granted the gift of this night, far from the course of the armies, an empty house in which to stay, and no plans to leave until dawn. It is a gift, Robert. Are you willing to throw it away?”

No, he was not. He was tired of fighting her, holding her always at arm's length—even though for the past several weeks he had slept with her almost nightly. He was tired of the barrier between them, tired of always thinking of her as the enemy. And he was quite as aware as she of the fact that time was running out and that within the next day or two he would have the difficult and unpleasant task of turning her over to Viscount Wellington as a French spy. Sometimes he longed to be able to step outside his life into one more congenial to him.

Not permanently. He liked his life. It was one that he had made for himself by sheer effort, and he was pleased with what he had done. But just for a short while. Just for a few hours.

“Very well, then,” he said, his harsh tone at variance with his words. “For tonight, Joana—until dawn—we will play house. Let's see if we can find this farm, shall we?” He shouldered the two guns almost as if he had a quarrel with them.

And just what had he done now? he wondered as he strode off in the direction of the deserted farm, Joana at his side. Had he finally succumbed to her charms just like all those other poor fools who dogged her footsteps wherever she went? Was he really going to bare his heart to her and risk having it hurt? And risk her ridicule?

But it was for only a few hours. Just a short time out of time. At dawn everything would be back to normal again.

*   *   *

She
had rubbed and rubbed at her hair with a spare towel until it was almost dry. She felt it with her hand, felt its dampness and
softness, dropped the towel, and used both hands to work through the tangles and push it into some style. She felt so deliciously clean that she closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of herself. And she smiled.

When they had come into the house, she had turned to wrap her arms about his neck and kiss his cheek. He had not offered to kiss hers in return or do more than pat the sides of her waist with his hands. She had felt cheated for a moment. He was not going to play after all. But she knew that men found it more difficult to play such games than women. And at least he had not put her away from him.

She had wrinkled her nose. “Robert,” she had said, “I think you stink. I am not quite sure because I believe I stink too. There will be water here—and a bathtub. Let us have a bath, shall we? With warm water? Can you imagine a greater luxury?”

“Not without having to think very hard,” he had said, and she had smiled more brightly at him. It was the closest Robert had come to joking with her. “So you are going to set me to work hauling water?”

She had smiled dazzlingly. “But think how wonderful it will be in bed tonight,” she had said. “Both of us clean and smelling sweet.” She had had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes kindling. “And I will work too. I will get a fire going. And to think that usually I bathe every day and take it very much for granted.”

That had been more than an hour before. She had bathed first, undressing and stepping into the warm water in the bathtub in the middle of the kitchen without at all worrying that he was in the room too. She had sighed with satisfaction and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. And she had known that he was after all going to play. She had never seen such a naked look of desire on Robert's face.

Now he was bathing and she was waiting for him in the main bedchamber, a towel wrapped about her. Her clothes were hanging above the stove, drying. She bounced once on the bed where she was
sitting and found that, yes indeed, it was soft and well-sprung. It was going to be a wonderful place on which to make love.

And then the bedroom door opened and he stepped inside. He was wearing only a towel wrapped about his waist. He looked almost unbearably masculine and virile. His hair, still wet, curled close to his head as it had when she had first met him.

“Robert,” she said, swinging one foot, “are you clean again and sweet-smelling?”

He stopped inside the door. “You had better come and find out for yourself,” he said.

She smiled and got to her feet. If that was not an irresistible invitation, coming as it did from Robert, then she did not know what would be.

She was indescribably beautiful, he thought, her damp hair in unruly waves about her head and down over her shoulders, her shoulders and arms and legs bare. Her skin had been darkened by the sun during the past weeks, so that many English ladies would have been horrified at the sight of her. But to him she looked healthy and vivid and lovely.

She looked even lovelier when she got to her feet and discarded the towel, dropping it carelessly to the floor. His eyes roamed over her, over the slim legs and rounded hips and small waist, over the firm high breasts to her finely boned shoulders. And to her face, alight with mischief and something else too.

She came up to him and set her nose against his chest and sniffed. She set two cool hands against his shoulders. Her breasts brushed tantalizingly against his chest. He inhaled slowly.

“Mm,” she said. “You smell good, Robert.” And her hands moved downward to his towel and tossed it backward onto the floor. “This is our own home and our own bedchamber, and the night is ahead of us. What shall we do?”

“This for a start,” he said. And he gazed into her dark eyes while he twined his fingers in her hair and lowered his mouth to hers, his
tongue reaching out ahead of him. He saw her open her mouth before closing his eyes.

He had not kissed her since the night they had become lovers. He had been too intent during the weeks since on convincing both himself and her that what he did with her was done merely to satisfy a physical need. Kissing implied more than the physical. There was something very personal and intimate about kissing—more intimate, strangely enough, than the actual act of coupling.