“Oh, I believe milord colonel can be trusted to keep his word,” she said airily, then broke into a run. “Oh, there's Cesar. And you have my rifle, and my knife. However did you get them back?”

Gabriel snorted. “Piece o' cake, lassie. They were a dozy lot, and once I'd broken a few bones, they weren't goin' to stand in my way.” He tossed her onto the back of the milk-white Arabian steed before mounting his own charger, an ugly brute whose massive shoulders and powerful hocks looked well up to the weight of his huge rider.

“Besides, I have a plan,” Tamsyn went on as if there'd been no interruption. She settled into the saddle and pulled the stallion's ears affectionately. “I think this milord colonel might prove useful, if I can buy his services.”

“Useful to do what?” Gabriel's tone was wary. He knew from experience that her plans were rarely simple. “Buy them with what?”

Tamsyn smiled and said mysteriously, “All in good time, Gabriel.”

Unreassured, but resigned, he held his peace, and they cantered back along the river, turning into the trees.

The men of the Sixth were packed up and ready to leave, standing beside their horses as the fires were put out. Julian whisked at the sight of La Violette's magnificent mount, whose Mameluke training was as obvious as the Arabian blood.

“I should imagine you had a fight to wrest that beast from Cornichet,” he observed to Gabriel as they rode up.

“Ye could say that,” Gabriel said, shrugging off his fight with six brawny French infantrymen. “But I had a cudgel and my broadsword. And thanks to yourself there was enough smoke around to create some difficulties for them.”

Julian ran his hand along the Arab's creamy neck, inspecting him with a cavalry officer's expertise.

“Cesar was a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday,” Tamsyn volunteered, pleased at the colonel's knowledgeable admiration for her pride and joy.

“A supreme animal,” Julian said with an ironic smile.

He saw that she had a knife in the sheath at her saddle and a long rifle attached to the pommel, a bandolier slung across her chest. He'd seen women armed in this way many times among the partisan bands, but the contrast of the weapons with La Violette's diminutive fairness was startling. And yet it was obvious from her easy posture that she was perfectly at home bristling with arms in her high saddle of magnificently tooled leather.

“Plunder from some Spanish grandee's stud, no doubt,” he added, his ironic smile unwavering.

“A Turk, as it happens,” she retorted. “He was crossing the Sierra Nevada with a complete stud and a mule train laden with gold and emeralds. My father relieved him of everything, I believe.”

“Och, little girl, such lies!” Gabriel exclaimed. “El Baron had his own stud, Englishman. It was renowned throughout Spain and Portugal, and men came from all over to buy a colt, but the baron would sell only to those he chose. I've seen grown men weeping and carpeting the ground with gold for one of his horses, but the baron wouldn't budge if he took agin a man.”

“Such a vivid imagination you have, senorita,” St. Simon murmured, glancing at Tamsyn, who was looking annoyed at Gabriel's intervention.

“Not as vivid as yours, Colonel,” she snapped.

He shrugged. “I suggest you devote your imagination to a plan for exercising your vengeance on Cornichet. Let's get going. I've no desire to waste any more time than necessary on this ridiculous expedition.”

He swung onto his mount and called, “Sergeant, give the order to move out.”

Flushed with anger, Tamsyn drew aside with Gabriel as the cavalcade trotted out of the clearing. For two pins she would have turned Cesar and galloped in the opposite direction, and there wasn't a cavalry officer under the sun who could have caught her. But her old life was over now, brought to an end first by the massacre in Puebla de St. Pedro, and then by Cornichet's ambush. Now she must plan a future, and the English colonel had somehow woven himself into that future. She needed his help in this little matter of Cornichet, but the large picture was beginning to take shape in her mind, and Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon rode through that canvas. A Cornishman who seemed to be in the right place at the right time-although whether he would put it that way himself was open to question. A question to be answered when they reached Elvas, once Cornichet had paid his dues.

SIX HOURS BROUGHT THEM TO THE OUTSKIRTS OF Olivenza. Tamsyn and the colonel had exchanged no words, and she'd ridden with Gabriel in the manner of the partisans, keeping apart from the English soldiers, riding in the hills alongside the road. Gabriel, like the phlegmatic magician he was, had produced bread, cheese, dried dates, and a wineskin of rioja from his saddlebags, and they'd eaten in the saddle as they were accustomed to doing.

Julian had kept an eye on them through his glass as they rode in the distance, bet as they reached the town, the two of them rode down to the cavalcade of soldiers.

“Beggin' yer pardon, Colonel, but this seems like a rum deal to me,” the sergeant muttered. “I wouldn't want to meet that bleedin' great bloke in a dark alley.”

“No,” Julian agreed, feeling that he owed the sergeant some explanation. “But they say La Violette always has her price, and if this lime junket is the cost of bringing her to headquarters, then we must pay it.”

He hadn't told the sergeant how it had happened that he'd left the bivouac with a firmly tethered prisoner and returned alone to be joined by the girl armed to the teeth on her Arab, accompanied by a gigantic bodyguard. His men could draw what conclusions they wished. They were soldiers accustomed to the strange fancies of their officers and to obeying incomprehensible orders.

“We should wait until dark before approaching the outpost,” Tamsyn declared, trotting up to him. She squinted up at the dimming ball of the setting sun. “Gabriel is going to reconnoiter, to make sure Cornichet's still there.”

“You may do as you wish, Violette. But my men and I will reconnoiter on our own account,” he said icily. “I don't commit my men to an action on the basis of someone else's observations.”

Tamsyn shrugged. “As you wish, milord colonel. But it seems a great waste of energy. I'll lay odds Gabriel is better at this sort of thing than any English soldier.”

“You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.” Julian turned his mount aside, signaling that his men should follow him, and they trotted away from the road and into the wood surrounding the town.

Pompous ass! Tamsyn shook her head in irritation but followed with Gabriel. In a small clearing in the cool, dim seclusion of the woods, they halted. The colonel gave soft-spoken commands to his scouts, and the two men dismounted and disappeared into the undergrowth.

“Might as well let 'em do it,” Gabriel said with a cheerful shrug, pulling out his wineskin. He threw back his head, and the dark-red stream arched from the neck of the skin and into his mouth.

“Colonel?” Aware of Julian's eyes on him, he offered the skin courteously.

“Thanks.” St. Simon took a welcome draft of the robust wine. As he handed it back to Gabriel, Tamsyn intercepted the skin and deftly drank herself.

Her teeth flashed pearly white as she opened her mouth and tilted her head back. Julian found himself gazing with rapt fascination at the graceful curve of her throat, the little movements as she swallowed the wine, the ruby stream pouring unbroken between her parted lips. The short cap of her hair was almost white in the gathering gloom, contrasting with the gold of her skin and the dark fringe of her eyelashes. She was like some barbarian maiden, he thought, sitting her magnificent warhorse with her rifle and her bandolier, one brown ungloved hand gripping the reins, her serviceable britches and shirt mud splattered, her boots of soft cordovan leather shabby and well-worn like the favorite riding boots of someone who spent most of her life in the saddle.