The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

she was startled by a shot. She ran into the hall, half expecting to see him lying dead at the feet of the rightful owner of the house, but there was no one about and all was quiet. A moment later he appeared clutching two bottles of wine. ‘Had to shoot the lock off,’ he said. ‘But there was no one there. They probably evacuated when they heard your people were advancing.’

      ‘My people?’

      ‘Johnny Bluecoats.’

      ‘They are not my people.’

      ‘One of them was. You said so.’

      ‘I am English, just as you are.’

      ‘Ah.’ He smiled wryly, taking the bottles into the kitchen and setting them on the table. ‘How can you be sure that I am?’

      ‘You are dressed in a British uniform and you speak English as well as I do.’

      ‘Neither of which is proof positive. No, if I were you, I would want to know a great deal more than that.’

      ‘Why? It is of little consequence; our paths are unlikely to cross again.’

      ‘Now that would be a pity,’ he said. ‘I thought my luck had changed at last.’

      ‘You are impertinent, sir.’

      He stood squarely and gave her a cool look of appraisal from her bare feet — army boots were hardly a suitable accessory for a blue silk dressing-gown — up over her five feet seven — she had the figure of an angel, he decided — to an oval face in which the green eyes flashed at him with a confusing mixture of humour and anger. He laughed. ‘Pretending to be affronted by what was, after all, meant as a compliment, doesn’t fool me, Madame Santerre. You are no drawing-room miss and, I’ll wager, never have been. A camp follower, that’s what you are, and, it seems, not particular as to the camp. Tell me, is it true that Frenchman are more romantically inclined than Englishmen?’

      She picked up the kitchen knife she had used to cut up the hare and raised it as if she meant to throw it but, deciding that it would be very unwise and probably dangerous, she turned back to her cooking. ‘Are you going to bath before we eat or afterwards? The water is hardly hot yet.’

      ‘It will do me. I’ll take it upstairs.’ He picked up the cauldron of hot water with little effort, though it was extremely heavy, grabbed the handle of the bath and disappeared with them into the hall, carrying the one and dragging the other.

      She went to the door and shouted after him, ‘Not the room with the four-poster. I saw it first.’

      Half an hour later he returned, looking much more presentable, though he had been obliged to put the buttonless uniform on again. ‘There are no men’s clothes at all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the owner was a lady who lived alone. It would account for her leaving in the face of an army, don’t you think?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ She filled two bowls to the brim with the hot stew and set them on the table, together with cutlery and glasses which she had found in the back of a kitchen cupboard. They were obviously not the family silver; that had gone, either with its owner or, after her departure, to marauding soldiers. ‘Would you like me to sew your buttons back on?’

      ‘No.’ He spoked sharply. ‘I like things as they are.’

      ‘Do you? How whimsical.’ She sat down opposite him and picked up her spoon. ‘I should have thought you would be glad to be able to close your coat again. The wind and rain in the mountains are cold, even in summer.’

      ‘I do not feel the cold.’

      ‘No? Not outside perhaps, but inside?’ She did not know why she said that, except that he looked like a man who kept his inner self very much to himself.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      She answered his question with another. ‘Why are you alone, so far from the British lines?’

      ‘Why should the British lines be of interest to me? I told you, you should not make assumptions from appearances.’

      ‘Are you saying you are not an English soldier?’

      ‘I am not.’

      ‘But you were?’

      ‘That is neither here nor there.’

      She guessed that he had been cashiered and it made her curious. In times of war when every available soldier was needed they would not discharge a man unless there was a very compelling reason. What crime had he committed? Ought she to be afraid of him? She supposed if she persisted in asking questions he might become dangerous, but at the moment he seemed more concerned with tucking into his dinner; he was obviously not going to be drawn on the subject. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It is no concern of mine. I only asked because I want to go back to the British lines myself and I thought you might take me with you.’

      ‘No!’ It was almost a shout. ‘My business is not in that direction at all. Now, if you don’t mind, we will change the subject.’ He lowered his voice and smiled. ‘Now, tell me how you came to be out on the mountain alone. It was you I saw earlier on the road, was it not?’

      ‘Yes, but I did not think you had noticed me, you seemed so preoccupied.’

      ‘I have been trained to notice things, but I must admit the filthy peasant I saw on the road bears very little resemblance to the beautiful young lady I found naked in a bath. If it had not been for the uniform coat, I might not have been so quick to realise they were one and the same.’

      ‘Careless of me,’ she said. ‘I suppose if I want to get back to the British lines I had better dispose of it.’

      ‘Why were you wearing it?’

      ‘It is warmer than nothing and nights on the mountains can be cold.’ She paused to sip her wine; it was a full-bodied red and made her feel sensuous and relaxed. She ought to beware of it. ‘Why are you still wearing yours?’

      He gave a cracked laugh. ‘As you say, it is warmer than nothing.’

      ‘We could exchange them. I’ll have yours and you have mine.’

      His head snapped up and he looked at her angrily. ‘Now why should you imagine that I would lower myself to wear a French uniform? I…’ He stopped suddenly as an idea came to him. ‘Tell me about yourself. Where did you meet your husband?’

      ‘Philippe, you mean? At Oporto, or more accurately a little to the north; I am not sure exactly where.’

      ‘Is Oporto your home?’

      ‘Of course not. I told you, I am English.’

      ‘There is no “of course” about it. There is quite a colony of English in Oporto, wine merchants most of them. Why do you think the government at home was so anxious to free it? Port is one of their favourite drinks.’

      ‘How cynical you are.’

      ‘Perhaps I have reason to be.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about Philippe.’

      ‘Why should I?’

      ‘I am interested and it will while away the evening.’ He leaned forward. ‘Unless you can think of something more exciting to do?’

      The implication was clear and it infuriated her. ‘You do not have to spend the evening with me at all. You will find what you want in the village, I have no doubt.’

      ‘What I want? How can you know what I want? You do not know me.’

      ‘No. You have not even troubled to introduce yourself. Perhaps you are ashamed to do so.’

      ‘You want my name? Of what importance is that? It might just as well be Philippe Santerre.’

      ‘Philippe was an honourable man.’

      ‘You think I am not?’ He picked up his glass and drained it quickly, then refilled it. ‘You may well be right, Madame Santerre, for who decides such things