A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

their gazes held. ‘I was under the impression, mademoiselle, that we were engaged in battle this day.’

      She averted her gaze down to the floor, suddenly afraid that she would betray the grief and pain and shock that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘Battle’ was too plain, too ordinary a word to describe what had taken place that day in the deserted village of Telemos. Twenty-seven lives had been lost, her father’s among them. Only when she knew that the weakness had passed did she glance back up at him. ‘But there is no one left to bury him.’

      ‘So it would seem.’

      His answer seemed to echo between them.

      ‘I would request that you give him a decent burial.’

      ‘No.’

      She felt her breath rush in a gasp of disbelief. ‘No?’

      ‘No,’ he affirmed.

      She stared at him with angry, defiant eyes. ‘My father told me that you were an honourable man. It appears that he was grossly mistaken in his opinion.’

      He raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

      ‘You will leave him as carrion for wild animals to feed upon?’

      ‘It is the normal course of things upon a battlefield.’

      She took a single step towards him, her fingers curled to fists by her sides. ‘You are despicable!’

      ‘You are the first to tell me so,’ he said.

      She glared at him, seeing the dislike in his eyes, the hard determination in his mouth, this loathsome man to whom her father had entrusted her. ‘Then give me a spade and I will dig his grave myself.’

      ‘That is not possible, mademoiselle.’

      Her mouth gaped at his refusal.

      ‘You wish Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s body to be buried? It is a simple matter. It shall be done—’

      ‘But you said—’

      ‘It shall be done,’ he repeated, ‘as soon as you answer my questions.’

      Fear prickled at the back of Josie’s neck, and trickled down her spine. She shivered, suspecting all too well the nature of the French captain’s questions. Carefully and deliberately, she fixed a bland expression upon her face and prayed for courage.

      Pierre Dammartin watched the girl closely and knew then that he had not been wrong in his supposition. ‘So tell me, Mademoiselle Mallington, what were riflemen of the Fifth Battalion of the 60th Regiment doing in Telemos?’

      ‘I do not know.’

      ‘Come now, mademoiselle. I find that hard to believe.’

      ‘Why so? Surely you do not think my father would discuss such things with me? I assure you that it is not the done thing for British army officers to discuss their orders with their daughters.’

      He smiled a small, tight smile at that. ‘But is it the done thing for British army officers to take their daughters on campaign with them? To have them fight alongside their men?’

      ‘It is not so unusual for officers to take their families, and as for fighting, I did so only at the end and out of necessity.’

      He ignored her last comment. ‘What of your mother, where is she?’

      The girl looked at him defiantly. ‘She is dead, sir.’

      He said nothing. She was Mallington’s daughter. What had Mallington cared for Major Dammartin’s wife or family? The simple answer was nothing.

      ‘Tell me of your father’s men.’

      ‘There is nothing to tell.’ Her voice was light and fearless, almost taunting in its tone.

      ‘From where did you march?’

      ‘I cannot recall.’

      He raised an eyebrow at that. The girl was either stupid or brave, and from what he had seen of Mademoiselle Mallington so far, he was willing to bet on the latter. ‘When did you arrive in Telemos?’

      She glanced away. ‘A few days ago.’

      ‘Which day precisely?’

      ‘I cannot remember.’

      ‘Think harder, mademoiselle…’ he stepped closer, knowing that his proximity would intimidate her ‘…and I am sure that the answer will come to you.’

      She took a step back. ‘It might have been Monday.’

      She was lying. Everything about her proclaimed it to be so: the way her gaze flitted away before coming back to meet his too boldly, too defiantly; her posture; the flutter of her hands to touch nervously against her mouth.

      ‘Monday?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How many men?’

      ‘I am not sure.’

      ‘Hazard a guess.’ Another step forward.

      And again she edged back. ‘A hundred,’ she uttered with angry defiance.

      ‘A large number.’ He raised an eyebrow, knowing from the scattering of corpses that there had been nowhere near that number of men.

      ‘Yes.’

      He watched her. ‘Did you ride with your father, or walk with the men, mademoiselle?’

      She looked up at him, and he could see the puzzlement beneath the thick suspicion. There was the shortest of pauses before she said, ‘I rode a donkey, the same as the other women.’

      ‘You are telling me that the unmarried daughter of the Lieutenant Colonel rode with the company’s whores?’

      ‘They were not whores,’ she said hotly. ‘They were wives to the men.’

      ‘And your father was happy to leave you with them while he rode ahead with his officers on horseback? How very caring of him,’ he ridiculed.

      ‘Do not dare to judge him. You are not fit to speak his name!’

      ‘Only fit to kill the bastard,’ he murmured in French.

      ‘Scoundrel!’ she cursed him.

      He smiled. ‘Who took the horses?’

      All of the anger drained from her in an instant. She froze, caught unawares. He saw the tiny flicker of fear in her eyes and knew that he had guessed right.

      ‘I do not know what you mean,’ she said, but the words were measured and careful.

      ‘There are only two horses stabled at the monastery. Where are the others?’

      Beneath the glow of the lantern her face paled. There was a pause. ‘We shot the others for food.’

      ‘Really,’ he said, ‘you shot the horses and left the donkeys?’

      ‘Yes.’ One hand slid to encase the other and she stood there facing him, with her head held high, as demure as any lady, and lying through her teeth.

      ‘I see.’ He watched her grip tighten until the knuckles shone white. He looked directly into her eyes and stepped closer until only the lantern separated them.

      She tried to back away, but her legs caught against the wooden crate positioned behind her and she would have fallen had he not steadied her. Quite deliberately, he left his hand where it was, curled around her upper arm.

      ‘You would do better to tell me the truth, Mademoiselle Mallington,’ he said quietly. He saw the pulse jump in her neck, could almost hear the skittering thud of her heart within the silence of the cellar. Her eyes were wide and her skin so pale as to appear that it had been carved from alabaster. She was smaller than he remembered from the shoot-out in the room