Flame shot up in the air from somewhere in the encampment, and a burst of rifle fire punctuated the confused shouts and bellows. Julian heard one of his own men yell urgently from the clearing behind them. This was no time to be bandying words with La Violette. His grip on her wrist tightened as she fought to break his hold, at the moment he had this brigand's spawn physically secured.

The cavalcade reached the bank of the Guadiana and halted. There was no sound of pursuit, only the rushing water of the river.· The night sky was black as pitch, and it was impossible to tell in the dark whether the river could be safely forded at this point.

“Sergeant! “

“Sir.” One of the black-cloaked figures separated itself from the men and rode up to the colonel.

“We'll bivouac here until dawn and then look for a ford. Let's see if we can find some shelter from this blasted rain. Try those trees.” The colonel gestured with his whip to an isolated clump of trees on the plain.

The sergeant gave the order and the cavalcade cantered off, the colonel following, his brow furrowed as he considered what he was to do with his captive once they were on the ground.

The copse yielded a deserted wooden shack, half its roof intact, and a ruined barn. The men of the Sixth were accustomed to bivouacking in the most unpromising circumstances. During the four-year struggle to drive Napoleon out of Spain and Portugal, the broiling summers and freezing, rain-swept winters in the Iberian Peninsula inured a man to ordinary discomforts. The horses were tethered under the trees, and men gathered sticks to make fires in the shelter of the barn walls. Even wet wood could be coaxed to produce a sullen flame with the dry tinder they all carried with them.

The colonel swung down from his horse, still holding his presently unresisting captive, and strode into the shack.

“Light a fire in 'ere, sir, an' you'll be snug as a bug in a rug,” the sergeant pronounced, following him inside.

“The men ‘ave got dry tinder left from the attack on the Froggies, an' I reckon a pannikin of tea wouldn't come amiss. “

“Sounds wonderful, Sergeant,” the colonel said somewhat absently. “Post pickets around the wood. We don't want the fires drawing unwelcome attention.”

He glanced down at the figure in his arms. La Violette had turned her head away from his chest as his grip had changed, and he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. She returned his scrutiny with an expression of mild curiosity that could have lulled a less cynical man into a false sense of security.

“What now, English Colonel?” Her English was so faintly accented, it would take a sharp ear to detect it, he thought in surprise.

“You speak good English?”

“Of course. My mother was English. Are you going to put me down?”

“If I do, will you give me your word you'll not attempt to run?”

A glint of mocking laughter appeared in her eyes.

“You'd accept the parole of a brigand, English Colonel?”

“Should I?”

She laughed aloud. “That's for me to know and you to find out, Colonel.”

There was something unpleasant beneath her mocking laughter. A wealth of antagonism that struck Julian as almost personal. Obviously it had slipped the brigand’s mind that her present comfort was dependent upon his goodwill.

“Thank you for the warning,” he said dryly. “I'll heed it.” He glanced around the small, inhospitable space. “I suppose I could utilize that neat collar Cornichet put on you and secure you in that fashion.”

Tamsyn pulled herself up sharply. This was not a man to mock, clearly. A different attitude was required.

“That won't be necessary,” she said swiftly, her eyes suddenly soft and conciliatory. “Please put me down, Colonel. How could I possibly escape with all your men around?”

Quite a little actress, La Violette, Julian thought with a grim inner smile. But that little-girl-Iost look wasn't fooling him. “I'll put you down with pleasure,” he drawled. “But you'll have to forgive me if I take certain precautions. Sergeant, bring me a length of rope.”

Tamsyn cursed her stupidity. Clearly she'd underestimated this particular example of the flower of Wellington ’s cavalry. She'd allowed her anger to get the better of her and indulged her contempt and loathing for the entire pompous, conceited breed with their gold braid and their buttons, but it seemed this colonel was not quite as blind and stupid as her prejudice had dictated.

She was set on her feet, her limbs still immobilized by the tight folds of the cloak.

“Do seat yourself, senorita,” the colonel invited his voice as smooth as silk. “The floor is a trifle damp, but I'm afraid my hospitality is somewhat limited at present.” He took the length of rope the sergeant handed him, and when Tamsyn didn't immediately avail herself of his invitation, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down.

Resistance was again futile. Tamsyn didn't fight the pressure but folded herself onto the floor, leaning against the wet wall. It was a horribly familiar position, and she reflected dismally that she'd been flipped from the frying pan to the fire with remarkable ease. She waited grimly for him to fasten the rope to the collar she still wore, but to her relief, he bent and hobbled her ankles and then tied the free end to the buckle of his sword belt. The rope was long enough to allow him to move around the small space while effectively restraining his prisoner, but it was nowhere near as uncomfortable or as hideously humiliating as to be tethered by the neck.

With her hands free she was able to loosen the folds of the cloak, and it was always possible she'd have the opportunity to untie her ankles if this sharp-eyed colonel dropped his guard, or fell asleep. She reached up to unbuckle the loathsome leather collar and threw it as far from her as she could.

The colonel raised an eyebrow but said nothing and made no attempt to retrieve the collar. Presumably, he preferred his own methods of restraint. Tamsyn huddled into the cloak and settled down to await developments.

A small fire crackled now under the roofed half of the hut, and the sergeant had balanced a pannikin of water over the flames. An oil lamp flickered, throwing grotesque shadows as the colonel loosened his tunic, unfastened his saddlebags, rustled through the contents. Tamsyn could hear shuffling and low voices from outside as the men settled into their own makeshift camp.

Her mouth watered as she watched the colonel unwrap a loaf of bread and a packet of cold meat. The sergeant was making tea, wetting the precious leaves in a mug so they were thoroughly infused before pouring on the rest of the boiling water.

These English certainly knew how to see to their comforts, Tamsyn reflected. Even in such dismal and unpromising circumstances.

Julian ate his supper with relish. He took the mug of tea from the sergeant with a word of thanks, and the man went outside to join the men bivouacking under the trees. The colonel studiously avoided looking at his captive as he drank thirstily and with obvious enjoyment. He'd decided that La Violette could go hungry for a salutary period. It might improve her attitude.

“What did you tell Cornichet?” he asked suddenly. Tamsyn shrugged and closed -her eyes. For some reason her usual resistance was deserting her, and she felt remarkably like crying. She wanted a cup of tea. More than food. In fact, she thought she could kill for a cup of that hot, steaming, reddish-brown liquid, so strong it would make her tongue curl. “Nothing.”

“I assume they'd only just started on you.” She didn't reply.

“What did he want to know?”

“What right do you have to take me prisoner?” she countered. “I'm no enemy of the English. I help the partisans, not the French.”

“As long as there's some profit in it for you, as I understand it,” he said, his voice a whip crack in the dim hovel. “Don't pretend to patriotic loyalty. We all know where La Violette's interests lie.”