The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

madame.’ He smiled as if at some secret joke. ‘Did you learn anything of the intentions of the guerrilleros while you were with them?’

      ‘I do not trust them either; they are a bloodthirsty lot.’

      ‘So they are, but not without reason. If someone had invaded England and pillaged your home town, raped the women and killed the men for nothing except keeping back food to feed their children, you would be bloodthirsty.’ He turned to look at her. He seemed far less formidable than he had in the poor light of the evening before and yet, behind the hazel eyes, there was an alertness which was not immediately evident from his languid pose. ‘The Spanish are hopeless when it comes to fighting in the disciplined way of the British army, but in small bands, in the hills where they can remain hidden until the time comes to strike, there are none better. The Peer knows that and he encourages them.’

      ‘I think they are barbaric. They did not have to kill Philippe; he could not have harmed them.’

      ‘He could have given away their position.’

      ‘We were blindfolded when we were taken to their camp.’

      ‘And yet you found your way out.’

      ‘That was simple good luck.’

      ‘They would not view it so. You could lead a French patrol back there.’

      She looked startled. ‘Why should I do that? I told them I was English.’

      ‘And did they believe you? Did they even understand you?’

      ‘Their leader did. He looked as uncouth as the rest of his band, but he spoke excellent French and very good English. He was — is — an educated man.’

      ‘Don Miguel Santandos,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

      ‘You know him?’

      ‘I know of him. He is one of the fiercest and bravest fighters in all Spain, but he is also ruthless. He will let nothing stand in his way; he would certainly not think twice about killing a woman. If he thinks you are likely to betray him, he will come after you; nothing is more certain.’

      She laughed. ‘If you are saying that to persuade me to go with you, you are wasting your time. I do not want to return to Ciudad Rodrigo, I intend to go home to England, and the sooner the better.’

      ‘You may do as you please,’ he said laconically. ‘But before you can do that we have to cross the river and find the road.’

      She rode silently for a moment or two, but curiosity drove her to speak again. ‘What will you do in Ciudad Rodrigo, always supposing you manage to enter the town at all? You will have to remain silent, you know, so how will you make yourself understood?’

      ‘A man who has been hanged and survived is still able to write, and my French is good enough for that.’

      ‘You will never convince anyone you have been hanged. There would be a very nasty mark on your neck if you had.’

      ‘I shall have to wear a bandage.’

      ‘They are not fools, you know.’

      ‘Neither am I.’

      She could not believe he really meant to do it. It was a silly game he was playing with her, though what his reasons were she could not even guess. Unless he was testing her loyalty? Why? She had told him the truth, if not the whole truth, so what more could he possibly want? ‘You have not even told me your name,’ she said. ‘What shall I call you?’

      ‘Anything that takes your fancy, madame.’

      ‘Have you something to hide?’

      He laughed harshly. ‘There is little that can be hidden behind a coat with no buttons. I am as you see me.’

      ‘Cashiered,’ she said. ‘Dishonourably discharged.’

      ‘My honour is my own affair,’ he said stiffly.

      ‘So it is; I have no interest in it. After all, we part at the crossroads and I do not expect to see you again. You will undoubtedly be shot by the French for spying — or by the English.’

      ‘Better that than…’ He stopped suddenly and sat forward in his saddle, holding his hand up to stop her. ‘Be silent!’

      She reined in and craned her neck to look past him. The village lay below them, nestling on the far side of a swiftly moving river which had cut a deep gorge through the mountain rock. There was a lone villa standing at the end of an ancient bridge. She watched, fascinated, as a group of men scrambled up from the rocks among the pillars of the bridge and ran into the villa. A moment later a huge explosion filled the air, flinging debris high into the sky. When the dust had settled, there was no longer a bridge.

      ‘If we had been two minutes earlier, we would have been on it.’ He chuckled. ‘Thank heaven for an argumentative woman.’

      ‘And if we had used the road we might have been even earlier and on the other side by now,’ she retorted. ‘Now, what do we do? Could we find a boat?’

      He laughed. ‘Do you think that after taking the trouble to blow up the bridge the guerrilleros are going to be so careless as to leave boats about? Besides, the banks are too steep for anyone but a mountain goat to get down to the water.’

      ‘Why did they do it? It is hardly an important bridge. It looks to me as though it is only used by the villagers to reach their olive groves.’

      ‘They want to stop someone from using it; that much is plain. Perhaps they are expecting company.’ He turned his horse to face her. ‘Or perhaps they want to keep a certain person on this side of it.’

      ‘You?’ she queried. Then, startled, ‘Me?’

      ‘Who’s to say what is in the mind of Don Santandos? But I think we would be wise to move on.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘North, towards the head of the river, there might be another bridge or, if not, a place to cross.’

      ‘Why not south?’

      ‘You may go south if you wish,’ he said laconically. ‘But I go north and then east.’

      ‘You would not leave me here alone?’

      ‘I thought that was what you most desired.’

      ‘That was before…’

      ‘Before?’ He laughed. ‘I am the lesser of two evils, is that it?’

      ‘I am not even sure of that,’ she retorted. ‘Danger comes in many guises. Just because you look a little more civilised than that Spaniard does not mean you are less dangerous. In fact, I think you are possibly the more deadly of the two. Don Santandos said he would keep me safe until he had checked my story, while you…’

      ‘And would he have been able to check your story? Are you sure you told him the whole truth?’

      She did not answer and he turned his horse towards the mountain peaks and set off back along the path through the olive groves, leaving her fuming in her saddle. She looked behind her at the ruins of the bridge. The partisans were streaming out of the villa and up the hill towards them. She dug her heels into the mule’s flanks and set off after the Englishman.

      ‘I shall call you Mr Leopard,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Until such time as we meet someone who can effect a proper introduction.’

      ‘Why Leopard?’

      ‘Isn’t that what Napoleon calls Viscount Wellington — a hideous leopard?’

      ‘The comparison flatters me, ma’am. Did you know the leopard cannot sheath its claws?’

      ‘No, I didn’t.’

      ‘I have none to sheath.’

      ‘That