Jane Feather - [V Series] (2 page)

“Yesterday, apparently. Cornichet’s men surrounded her band of ruffians outside Olivenza. According to this, they’re holding La Violette in a military outpost outside the town.”

“How reliable is this?” The colonel’s eyes flickered over the dispatch.

Wellington shrugged and shot an interrogatory glance at the aide-de-camp.

“The agent’s one of our best men, sir,” the aide said. “And the information is so fresh, I’d lay any odds it’s correct.”

“Damn,” muttered Wellington. “If the French have her, they’ll wring every scrap of knowledge out of her. She knows how to navigate every goddamned mountain pass from here to Bayonne, and what she doesn’t know about the partisans in the area isn’t worth knowing.”

“We’d better get her out, then,” the colonel drawled as if it were a foregone conclusion, replacing the dispatch on the table. “We can’t allow Johnny Crapaud to have information we don’t have.”

“No,” agreed Wellington, stroking his chin. “If La Violette’s already shared her knowledge with the French, then we’ll be at a significant disadvantage if she can’t be induced to give it to us too.”

“Why do the French call her that?” inquired the major. “The Spanish call her Violeta, too.”

“It’s the way she works, as I understand it,” Colonel St. Simon said, a sardonic note in his voice. “Or rather, plays … the proverbial shrinking violet. She’s always
to be found hiding behind the activities of the large partisan bands. While the French army is concentrating on guerrilla activities, the little violet and her band are flourishing in the background, causing merry mayhem where least expected.”

“And feathering her own nest while she’s about it,” Wellington remarked. “She’s said to have no time for the armies of either side, and while she’ll assist the Spanish partisans, she expects to be paid for her help … or at least to be put in the way of a little profitable pillage.”

“A mercenary, in other words,” the major said, with a grimace of distaste.

“Precisely. But I gather the French find even less favor with her than our good selves. At least she’s never offered to help the French, for any price.” The commander in chief kicked at a falling log in the hearth.

“Until now,” observed the colonel. “They may be offering her the right price at this moment.” He was a big man, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a pair of startling blue eyes beneath bushy red-gold eyebrows. His hair was a thick mane of the same color, an unruly lock flopping over a wide forehead. He carried himself with all the natural authority of a man born to wealth and privilege, a man unaccustomed to questioning the established order of things. A cavalry officer’s pelisse was cast carelessly over his scarlet tunic, a massive curved sword sheathed in a broad studded sword belt at his hip. He surged with a restless energy, seeming too big for the confined space.

“I’ve heard it said, my lord, that the name also comes from La Violette’s appearance,” the aide-de-camp ventured. “I understand she resembles the flower.”

“Good God, man!” The colonel’s scornful laughter
pealed through the dingy room. “She’s a ruthless, murdering bandit who, when it suits her whim, chooses for a price to put her dubious services at the partisans’ disposal.”

Discomfited, the aide-de-camp shuffled his feet, but the major said briskly, “No, St. Simon, the man’s right. I’ve heard it said, also. I gather she’s a diminutive creature who looks as if you could blow her away in one puff.”

“Then she’ll not hold out long once Major Cornichet starts his gentle persuasion,” Wellington declared. “He’s a vicious, arrogant brute with a taste for interrogation. There’s no time to lose. Julian, will you take it on?”

“With pleasure. It’ll be a joy to balk Cornichet of his prey.” The colonel was unable to hide his enthusiasm for the task as he clicked his booted feet and his spurs jingled. “And it’ll be most satisfying to put an end to the games of this shrinking violet. She’s played too long, enriching herself at our expense.” A look of distaste crossed the aristocratic features. Julian St. Simon had no time for mercenaries. “I’ll take twenty men.”

“Will that be enough to storm an entire outpost, St. Simon?” the major inquired.

“Oh, I don’t intend to storm it, my friend,” Colonel, Lord St. Simon said, grinning. “Stealth and trickery—a little guerrilla warfare of our own, if you take my meaning.”

“Then go to it, Julian.” Wellington offered his hand. “And bring back this flower so we can pluck her petals ourselves.”

“I’ll have her here in five days, sir.” The colonel left the room, currents of energy seeming to swirl in his wake.

Five days was no idle boast, as the commander in chief was aware. Julian St. Simon, at twenty-eight, had been a career soldier for ten years, and he was known as much for his unorthodox methods as for his invariable success. It was held as a fact of life in the mess that St. Simon never failed at a task he set himself, and his men would follow him into an inferno if he asked it of them.

The French outpost was a huddle of wooden huts and tents in a small wood outside the walls of Olivenza. The rain poured down from the leaden skies and dripped from the branches of the trees, soaking the canvas tents and streaming through the spaces between the wooden slats of the huts in a relentless torrent.

La Violette, known to her own people as Tamsyn, daughter of Cecile Penhallan and El Baron, sat huddled on the wet earthen floor in the corner of one of the huts. A rope attached to a plaited leather collar around her neck secured her to the wall. She inched sideways to avoid a persistent trickle of water funneling down a grooved slat and down the back of her shirt.

She was cold and hungry, cramped and wet, but her eyes were sharp with speculation, her ears straining to catch the low-voiced conversation through the drumming of the rain. Major Cornichet and two fellow officers were eating at a table in the center of the hut. The smell of garlic sausage and ripe cheese set her saliva running. A cork was pulled, and she could taste on her tongue the rough red wine of the region. A wave of hunger-induced nausea washed over her.

She’d been held like this for two days. They’d thrown her half a loaf of bread early this morning. It had landed in the mud beside her, but she’d brushed it off and devoured it, tipping her head to catch the rainwater
funneling in the groove above her. At least there was no shortage of water if she was prepared to forage for herself, and so far she had suffered nothing but discomfort and the humiliation of her position.

A little humiliation and a degree of discomfort were nothing. Tamsyn could hear the baron’s voice. “
Hija
, you must learn what can be endured and what must not; which battles are worth fighting and which are not.”

But when would the softening up cease? When would they start seriously? She could simply give them what they wanted, of course, probably even demand a price for it. But this was a battle worth fighting for. She could not aid the French, betray the partisans, without betraying her father’s memory. So when would it start?

As if in answer to her silent question, Major Cornichet stood up and strolled over to her. He looked down at her, one hand stroking the curled waxed mustache above a cruel mouth. She met his gaze as fearlessly as she could.

“Eh, bien,”
he said. “You will talk to me now, I believe.”

“About what?” she returned. Her mouth was dry, and despite the cold and the wet, she felt hot and feverish. The daughter of El Baron was no coward, but you didn’t have to be a coward to fear what she must now face.

“Don’t try my patience,” he said almost affably. “We can do this without pain, or we can do it with. It matters not to me.”

Tamsyn folded her arms, rested her head nonchalantly against the wall at her back, ignoring the trickle of water, and closed her eyes.

The rope attached to the collar was suddenly jerked hard, and she was hauled to her feet, the collar pulling
tight against her throat as the colonel jerked upward again and she came up on her toes, fighting for breath.

“Don’t be a fool, Violette,” Cornichet said softly. “You will tell us in the end. Everything we wish to know and much that we don’t if it will stop the pain. You know that. We know that. So let’s spare ourselves the time and the trouble.”

She wouldn’t be able to hold out. Not forever. But she could endure for some time.

“Where is Longa?” The soft question hissed against the monotonous backdrop of the drumming rain.

Longa led the partisan bands in the north. His guerrillas were wreaking havoc on Napoleon’s forces with their darting forays, their sneak attacks coming out of the blue, harassing struggling columns, picking off stragglers, laying waste to the land so there was no foraging to be done for an army that survived off the land as they marched.

Tamsyn knew where Longa was. But if news of her capture could reach the guerrilla leader before she broke, then he would be able to disappear. She had to pray that someone was aware of it, that the news was even now traveling to Pamplona. Her men had scattered in the ambush—those who hadn’t been killed—all except for Gabriel. And where was Gabriel? Somewhere in this wretched hole, if they’d left him alive. Perhaps he was even now breaking free. It was impossible to imagine that giant oak of a man held captive by ordinary human bonds. And if Gabriel freed himself, then he would come for her.

She had to endure.

The rope slackened and she came back on her feet again, but the colonel’s hand was on her shirt. Instead of ripping it, he unbuttoned it slowly and deliberately.

Her skin was now icy as she saw the knife he held in his other hand. Bitter nausea rose in her throat. Of all things, she dreaded the knife the most. Could Cornichet know that? Know of her invincible terror at the sight of her own torn skin, her own crimson blood escaping … Black spots danced in front of her eyes, and she clung to consciousness with every last fiber of her being.

One of the other men came over, smiling. He moved behind her and pulled the shirt from her as the last button came undone. He grasped her wrists, dragging her arms behind her so that her breasts were pushed forward. Rough rope cut into her wrists. She could feel the soft tremble of her breasts on her rib cage.

“Such a pity,” murmured Cornichet, moving the knife around the small swell of her right breast. “Such delicate skin. One wouldn’t expect it of a brigand, a thief and a plunderer.” The tip traced the circle of her nipple. “Don’t make me do this,” he said, cajoling. “Tell me where Longa is.”

She said nothing, trying to take her mind away from the hut with the flickering candlelight and the ceaseless drumming of the rain; trying not to feel the cold flat of the knife, pressed now against her breast so that the edge was sharp on her flesh, but not yet cutting.

“You will tell me where Longa is,” the colonel continued in the same almost pensive tone. “And then you will describe the passes through the Guadarrama heights—the ones you and your friends use.”

Still she said nothing. Then she was spinning on the end of the rope as the man behind her whirled her to face the wall. The rope was pulled tight, and she came up on her toes again as they fastened it to a hook much higher on the wall. She felt the knife on her back now,
and it was worse, much worse, when she couldn’t see it. The tip scribbled down her spine, and she waited for the first nick. It would be a slow flaying, she knew; innumerable little cuts, drawing beads of blood until the stream flowed.

There was a strange smell. For a second Tamsyn didn’t recognize it as she fought the terror for control, waiting for the next touch of the knife. Someone coughed behind her. Her breath caught in her throat. The tightness of the collar and her fear … but, no. It was smoke. Thick black smoke creeping under the door. Oily, sullen smoke billowing through the hut, defying the rain. Acrid, choking smoke.

Cornichet cursed, whirling toward the door. One of the others was there before him, wrenching it open. He fell back before the black rolling cloud.

A bugle sounded. An impudent clarion call. And then chaos broke out. In the choking smoke men struggled with black-clad wraiths who seemed to appear from nowhere, swords drawn. The sharp crack of rifles mingled with the curses and exclamations. A scream of pain.

Tamsyn tried to swing herself on her toes away from the wall, but with her hands bound she could get no leverage and could only imagine what was going on in the acrid darkness behind her. Her mind was racing as she tried to think of some way of capitalizing on this amazing piece of good fortune. But strung up as she was, there seemed nothing she could do to help herself. Could it be Gabriel causing this chaos?

Then miraculously the rope holding her to the wall parted. The tension was abruptly released, and she fell to her knees.

“Get up!” a voice said in English. A knife sliced through the bonds at her wrists.

Tamsyn wasted no time questioning her good fortune. She struggled to her feet, choking as the greasy black smoke curled around her.

“Quickly!” the same voice commanded. “Move!” A hand in the small of her back propelled her forward.

There was something irritatingly peremptory about her rescuer, but circumstances didn’t lend themselves to protest. Her eyes stung with the smoke, and her lungs heaved. She ducked sideways away from the propelling hand to catch up her shirt, glimmering white on the floor at her feet. She thrust her arms in the sleeves before covering her mouth and nose with her forearm, then staggered forward, that hard hand in her back again, pushing rather than guiding her toward the door.

All around her, men swayed, cursed, coughed, fought for the door. Outside it was hardly better. Every hut seemed to be smoldering, sending greasy clouds into the rain, and men ran hither and thither grabbing up possessions, shouting orders.

Again the bugle sounded and she recognized the note of retreat. The man still pushing her forward bellowed, “The Sixth to me.” Then her feet left the ground and he was carrying her, running with her through the mud and the rain and the confusion, dodging blue-uniformed Frenchmen.

Men wrapped in dark cloaks were racing to a clearing where twenty horses pawed the ground and whickered, the whites of their eyes showing as they smelled smoke.