His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford

       ‘Don’t look round,’ he murmured. ‘Keep looking at me.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Machart is watching us from the doorway yonder.’

      ‘Why would he?’

      ‘Perhaps he was hoping to get you alone.’ Falconbridge smiled. ‘I think we should show him how futile his hope is.’

      ‘How?’

      He released his hold on her hand, but only to slide an arm round her waist and draw her against him. His lips brushed hers, tentatively at first, then more assertively. Liquid warmth flooded her body’s core and she swayed against him, her mouth opening beneath his. The kiss grew deeper, more intimate, inflaming her senses, demanding her response. She had no need to pretend now, nor cared any longer who was watching. All that mattered was the two of them and the moonlight and the moment.

      AUTHOR NOTE

      The Napoleonic Wars provide the backdrop for this novel, which is set in Spain in 1812 in the Peninsular Campaign. The story takes place in the months between the Siege of Badajoz and the Battle of Salamanca.

      I was once lucky enough to live in the Spanish capital for a while. Madrid is a beautiful and vibrant city, and also provided a perfect base for exploring the rest of Iberia. The impressions and experiences from that time have stayed with me ever since, and from them I have drawn much of the local material for this book. Other sources of inspiration came from Sunday morning visits to the Prado Museum. Goya’s paintings—in particular Dos de Mayo and Tres de Mayo—give a real flavour of the Napoleonic period and the brutal struggle against foreign oppression. The Spanish waged a highly effective guerrilla campaign against the French, and this forms a strand of the subplot in my novel.

      However, El Cuchillo is entirely my own invention. Like so many Spanish towns, Ciudad Rodrigo is a wonderful place to visit—rather like taking a journey back in time. It isn’t hard to imagine Wellington and his staff walking through the halls of the Palacio de los Castro, or red-coat soldiers manning the walls of the town. These still bear the marks of the bombardment. The castillo no longer has a military function; these days it is a parador, one of the many historic state-owned hotels.

      About the Author

      JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.

       Recent novels by the same author:

      THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

       (part of the Mills & Boon Presents… anthology, featuring talented new authors) THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS THE LAIRD’S CAPTIVE WIFE

       Visit www.joannafulford.co.uk for more information

      HIS

      COUNTERFEIT CONDESA

      Joanna Fulford

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Catherine Pons, whose friendship has made life so much richer.

      Chapter One

       Spain 1812

      Sabrina surveyed the laden wagon and the damaged wheel and mentally cursed both. Her gaze travelled down the dusty road that snaked through rock and scrub towards the distant sierra. The sun was already past the zenith and they still had many miles to cover before they reached their destination. Now it looked as though they were going to be much later than planned. The wagon driver, a short, wiry individual of indeterminate age, kicked the wheel rim and flung his hat to the ground, muttering an imprecation under his breath. Then he turned towards her, his swarthy face registering an expression that was both doleful and apologetic.

       ‘Lo siento mucho, Doña Sabrina.’

      ‘It’s not your fault, Luis. This wagon wasn’t up to much in the first place,’ she replied in Castilian Spanish as fluent as his own.

      ‘It is no better than firewood on wheels,’ he replied. ‘Or rather, not on wheels any more. Next time I see that donkey, Vasquez, I shall kill him.’

      She shook her head. ‘He is an ally, even if he does supply poor transport.’

      ‘Dios mio! With allies such as this, who needs to worry about the French?’

      ‘Even so.’

      Luis sighed. ‘Very well. I shall let him off with just a beating.’

      ‘No, Luis, tempting as it is.’ She turned back to the wagon. ‘All that matters now is to get this thing fixed so that we can make the rendezvous with Colonel Albermarle.’

      Another voice interjected calmly, ‘There’s a wheelwright in the next town. It’s no more than five miles from here.’

      She turned towards the speaker, a man of middle years whose black hair showed strands of grey. His tanned face was deeply lined but the eyes were shrewd and alert. Though he was not tall, his stocky frame suggested compact strength.

      Sabrina nodded. ‘All right, Ramon. You and I will ride into town and fetch help. Luis and the others can stay here and guard the wagon.’

      With that she swung back astride the bay gelding and waited while Ramon remounted his own horse. She nodded to Luis and the three men with him and then turned the horse’s head towards Casa Verde.

      Town was an overstatement she decided when they reached it about an hour later. It was no more than a large sleepy village. Many of the buildings were ramshackle affairs with cracked walls and sagging pantile roofs. Chickens scratched in the dirt and a hog sunned itself beside an adobe wall. Ragged children played knucklebones before the open door of a house. The narrow street led into a small dusty plaza and Sabrina glanced at her companion.

      ‘Where can we find the wheelwright?’ she asked.

      ‘Garcia’s premises are located behind the church.’ Ramon nodded in the direction of the imposing whitewashed building on the far side of the square. ‘Not far now.’

      They found the place with no difficulty but discovered the proprietor and two others engaged in removing a wheel from a large supply wagon. Another similar vehicle stood nearby, laden with barrels and sacks. A group of red-coated soldiers stood beside it, laughing and talking among themselves. Sabrina and her companion exchanged glances.

      ‘I’ll go and speak with Garcia,’ he said.

      She took his horse’s reins and watched him cross the intervening space. The wright glanced up from his work. There followed an interchange lasting perhaps two minutes. Then Ramon returned, his expression sombre.

      ‘The man has just begun a new job,’ he said. ‘He will not be able to help us until tomorrow.’

      ‘What!’

      Ramon gestured to the two supply wagons. ‘He says he must fix those first.’

      ‘But we’re supposed to rendezvous with Albermarle in Ciudad Rodrigo this evening.’

      ‘I think that won’t be possible. He says the English soldiers are