The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

‘If you do not come back.’

      ‘Until dawn, but I shall be back long before that.’

      She listened as his footsteps and the clop of hoofs died away, then sat down to wait. But Olivia was not a passive person; waiting was something she had never learned to do. She decided to make her way back along the path towards the track which led to the bridge, to see if she could see him going over. And if he managed to cross safely, why then should she not follow? It would save him having to come back for her. She had no sooner convinced herself of the sense of that than she was leading the mule back along the path, feeling her way carefully in the failing light.

      She did not see him, though her eyes ached with trying to make out his form among the shadows. She jumped at every sound — the bleat of a goat, the hoot of an owl. As she drew nearer to the bridge, she could hear sounds of revelry coming from the monastery. There was a guard on the far side of the bridge outside the entrance to the building, pacing up and down, watching the road from the east. He did not seem to be interested in the path from the mountains. Had Mr Leopard evaded him? Could she pass him too? The sound of the water was loud enough to muffle the sound of her footsteps, but to take the mule as well would be too risky. She left it with reins trailing and set off across the bridge, darting from shadow to shadow until she was on the far side and very close to the sentry.

      And there she froze. Two partisans appeared and called cheerfully to the guard, who answered and then turned towards the bridge. He went down a few steps and peered downwards towards the water as if expecting trouble from that direction. Olivia noticed the rough path down the cliff as she moved lightly out and across the road while his back was turned. By the time he had returned to his post, she was in the shadow of the monastery gate. Now what to do? she asked herself.

      The sentry was coming back. There was only one way to go and that was into the courtyard. She darted across to hide behind the nearest of the French wagons which stood just inside the gate. Here she stopped to peer out at the guerrilleros who stood in a circle, facing inwards. In their centre the Englishman sat on his horse with his hands tied behind him. Around his neck was another rope and the end of this had been thrown over a branch of a gnarled cork oak.

      ‘Thieves we hang,’ Don Santandos said, addressing his prisoner. ‘And it matters not whether they be French, English or Spanish.’

      ‘You are not thieves, then?’ Mr Leopard said, levelly. ‘You have stolen nothing.’

      ‘Nothing that was not ours to begin with. Now you will die unless you can prove who you are and why you are spying.’

      ‘I was not spying.’

      ‘But you were thieving?’

      There was no answer and Don Santandos walked round the horse, stroking its haunch. A good thump would set it off and leave the Englishman hanging. ‘Oh, not again!’ Olivia whispered. ‘Not again.’

      ‘Where is the woman?’

      ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

      Olivia held her breath. Surely he would not rather die than reveal her whereabouts? It did not matter; she was not where he supposed her to be. Tell him, you fool, she pleaded silently. Tell him what he wants to know.

      But he remained silent and Don Santandos was losing patience. ‘Englishmen are fools when it comes to women,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you want to die. Then I give you your wish.’ He raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the rump of the horse, leaving the Englishman swinging.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Olivia whispered. ‘No, you do not do this to me twice.’

      Slowly, achingly slowly, she raised the rifle, rested it on the tailboard of the wagon and carefully took aim.

       CHAPTER THREE

      FOR one infinitesimal moment after the shot was fired, no one moved, except the Englishman, whose body fell to the ground with a thump and lay still. Olivia, from her hiding place, smiled in triumph and patted the butt of the heavy Baker rifle which had made it possible. But then all was commotion as some of the guerrilleros ran for guns which had been stacked against the wall and others turned towards the wagon where the difting gunsmoke betrayed her position. Now she had to keep the initiative and there was no time to reload. She darted out from her hiding place and ran to where the Leopard lay. Still startled, the men did nothing to stop her.

      ‘You imbeciles!’ she shouted. ‘You could have killed him!’

      Don Santandos was the first to recover. ‘That, madame, was our intention,’ he said. ‘And but for your lucky shot he would be dead by now.’

      She bit off the retort that it had not been luck but marksmanship, and concentrated on playing the distraught female. In a way she was distraught; without Mr Leopard, she was lost; reluctantly she had to admit it. ‘He is my husband,’ she said. ‘He is the one who will tell you I am who I say I am. Oh, if he dies…’

      The partisans were watching, doing nothing, but she could not expect them to remain inactive for long; she had to convince them. ‘Darling! Darling, speak to me,’ she cried, as she worked to loosen the rope around their victim’s neck. She put her ear to his chest. His heart was beating like a hammer on an anvil. ‘You are my husband,’ she whispered, bending low over him so that her face was against his ear. ‘Tell me your name.’ When he did not reply, she lifted her head to look at him, wondering if he had heard her, or even if he could speak. His eyes were closed and there was an angry red weal round his neck where the rope had been.

      ‘Oh, do not die on me, my love!’ she cried, with more anguish than ever for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘I love you. I need you.’

      She was not sure, but she thought she detected a slight grin on his face and hoped fervently no one else had seen it. To make sure of that, she bent and kissed him on the mouth and was completely taken aback when he put his arm round her neck so that her head was imprisoned and kissed her back. Where he found the strength to hold her so firmly after what he had been through she did not know. She was acutely aware of their audience as the kiss lengthened and became something more than a mere meeting of lips.

      Then he moved his mouth, oh, so slowly, round to her ear, making her shiver. ‘Robert,’ he croaked. ‘Robert Lynmount.’

      ‘Come now, madame,’ Don Santandos said. ‘Enough is enough. Such antics are best left to the bedroom and prove nothing.’

      She looked up at the Spaniards who stood round grinning and covered her confusion with a show of anger. ‘You may think yourselves lucky that my husband is not dead, for Viscount Wellington would certainly have had something to say about it, I can tell you. Robert Lynmount is one of his most valued officers.’

      Don Santandos laughed. ‘I would say his value is less than a dozen buttons and a metre of braid.’

      She chose to ignore this reference to the Englishman’s mutilated uniform. ‘Now, will you please help him to a bed where he can recover?’ She prayed her authoritative manner would have the desired effect, because they had no hope of fighting their way out, even if she still held the gun and could reload.

      ‘You have courage, madame, I’ll grant you,’ Don Santandos said. ‘It has earned you both a reprieve, albeit a temporary one.’ He turned to give orders to two of his men who went to pick the Englishman up, one at his head and the other at his feet, but before they could do so he sat up and pushed them away. They stood back and watched as he forced himself to his feet. He stood, swaying a little before finding his balance, but Olivia knew better than to try to help him. He was an exceptionally strong man and he was also proud.

      Don Santandos smiled. ‘Good. Come with me.’ He turned to lead the way into the building.

      Olivia, tagging along behind, realised it had been a long time since the monastery had been used for the purpose for which it had been built. It was