Redemption of a Fallen Woman. Joanna Fulford

stable by any chance?’ he asked.

      ‘No, it would have been too risky. Concha purchased them from a livery stable. She made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

      ‘I’ll wager he was delighted.’

      She laughed. ‘They’re not exactly bloodstock, are they? But then good looks aren’t everything.’

      ‘True enough.’ The horse was no longer uppermost in his mind; rather it was the way that laughter lit her face. It suited her. He thought he’d like to see her laugh more often. He couldn’t help noticing either that her current attire suited her very well too, confirming all his earlier notions about her figure. Nor did he miss the pistol in her belt.

      ‘I assume that isn’t for decoration.’

      ‘You assume correctly.’

      ‘Where did you learn to shoot?’

      ‘My father taught me. He thought it an essential part of my education.’ Elena gave him a sideways glance. ‘How do you come to speak Spanish so well?’

      ‘I spent many years in your country during the war.’

      ‘In the diplomatic service?’

      ‘In the army.’

      She felt a sudden knot of tension in her stomach. ‘I see.’ Framing her next words carefully she went on, ‘You must have been involved in a lot of actions.’

      ‘Enough to last me a lifetime.’

      ‘War leaves a bitter legacy, does it not?’

      The words were an uncanny echo of a former conversation, one that Harry would have preferred to forget.

      ‘It’s something I choose not to dwell on,’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘Probably most of those who lived through it feel the same. Yet life can never be as it was before.’

      ‘We do the best we can.’

      ‘My sister has been lucky—Dolores, I mean. She has a good man and, now, three children.’

      ‘Her husband is English, I collect.’

      ‘Yes. He was a soldier too, a gentleman of means but not of high birth. They met at the start of the war. There was opposition to the match—Dolores was intended for a wealthy Spanish nobleman—but she wore our father down eventually. Our aunts never forgave either of them, of course.’

      ‘That doesn’t entirely surprise me.’

      ‘Are you married?’

      ‘No. I once hoped to be, but my fiancée died in the war.’

      It was out almost before he’d realised, but then her question had caught him unawares. The answer awakened a host of painful memories. His jaw tightened. Belén had died because he’d failed her. If he’d followed his instinct and married her at once he could have taken her away and she would have been safe. The consequences of that decision haunted him still.

      Elena surveyed him with quiet sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘So am I.’

      She would have liked to know more but it was clearly dangerous ground and she had no wish to alienate him. He must have been very much in love. Indeed, it seemed he still grieved for the woman he had lost. She was aware of a sensation very like envy. Her betrothed had never cared like that, had not cared at all, in fact—only she hadn’t discovered it until she needed him most. The memory was bitter and she pushed it away. Harry Montague’s lady had been lucky in that respect at least.

      ‘My father died in the war.’

      ‘Your uncle mentioned the fact.’ As soon as the words were out he cursed mentally. He hadn’t meant to reveal any part of that private after-dinner conversation.

      Elena kept her voice level. ‘Did he relate the circumstances?’

      Harry hesitated, but decided it was pointless to lie. ‘Briefly, yes.’

      ‘I see.’ Although it was a difficult subject she was rather relieved that her uncle had been frank with him about her past. It would save further explanations. ‘Well, after what happened I could not stay in Badajoz.’

      His heart leapt towards his throat. ‘Badajoz?’

      ‘Yes. My family home was there. Did not my uncle tell you that?’

      ‘No, he said only that it was soldiers who performed the outrage. I assumed they were French.’

      ‘Atrocities were not confined to any one military group,’ she replied. ‘It was British soldiers who ran amok in Badajoz and it was they who … Well, you know what happened.’

      Harry shut his eyes for a moment to regain his equilibrium. He knew what had happened all right. Murder had stalked the streets then.

      ‘What occurred there is a matter of everlasting shame to my country,’ he replied.

      ‘I imagine you can understand why my family were so keen for me to enter a convent.’

      ‘Their view is not one I share.’

      ‘That is fortunate for me and I’m grateful.’

      ‘I wasn’t seeking your gratitude.’

      ‘You have it all the same.’ She shot him a sideways look. ‘I must apologise for embroiling you in my problems but in truth I could think of no other way out.’

      ‘I hope you won’t come to regret your decision. The journey is going to be long and hard.’

      ‘But the company is good.’

      ‘I’m glad that you think so.’ He could only hope she wouldn’t be disillusioned. Fortunately she knew relatively little about him and he wasn’t about to enlighten her further.

      ‘You would not have come on such a journey without a servant whom you trusted.’

      Harry nodded. ‘You’re quite right. Jack Hawkes and I know each other well.’

      ‘He is a family retainer?’

      ‘Not exactly. He was once a member of my company. We served together during the war.’

      ‘And then you employed him afterwards.’

      ‘Just so.’

      ‘Had he no family, then?’

      ‘None that he knows of. The company was his family in the end.’

      She nodded. ‘I can understand that. War creates a bond between men.’

      It was an echo of his own former thought and he regarded her in surprise. ‘You speak knowledgeably.’

      ‘I have spent some time among fighting men.’

      Curiosity increased. ‘The guerrilla force your uncle mentioned?’

      ‘That’s right. Does it shock you?’

      ‘I own to surprise. It’s not the role I would immediately have associated with you.’

      ‘It was that or the convent.’

      ‘But were you not engaged to be married?’

      ‘My betrothed broke off our engagement.’

      Harry was conscious of having strayed onto dangerous ground. He sensed the hurt beneath the level tone and felt awkward. Clearly these were personal matters which he had no right to probe.

      ‘More fool him,’ he replied.

      The words carried no discernible trace of irony. Elena eyed him askance, momentarily taken aback. At the same time the memory she had tried to suppress resurfaced. It ought not to have hurt any more, and she was disconcerted to discover that it did. With an effort she kept her tone neutral.