A Regency Captain's Prize. Margaret McPhee

it to her nose, breathing in faint lavender and rosemary, the familiar scent of her own portmanteau and its sachets that she had sown what seemed an eternity ago on sunny days at home in England. The last time she had worn this cloak her father had been alive, and twenty-seven others with him. She still could not believe that they were dead.

      ‘It is my cloak, thank you, Captain Dammartin,’ she said stiffly, and draped the material around her.

      ‘We have not a side-saddle.’

      ‘I can ride astride.’

      Their eyes held for a heartbeat before she moved quickly to grasp her skirts and, as modestly as she could manage, she placed her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up on to the grey horse.

      The troopers cast appreciative gazes over Josie’s ankles and calves, which, no matter how much she pulled at and rearranged her skirts, refused to stay covered. Several whistles sounded from the men, someone uttered a crudity. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and kept her gaze stubbornly forward.

      ‘Enough,’ Dammartin shouted at his men in French. ‘Look to your horses. We leave in five minutes.’

      Another officer on horseback walked over to join them, his hair a pale wheaty brown beneath the glint of his helmet.

      Dammartin gave the man a curt nod of the head before speaking. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington, this is Lieutenant Molyneux. Lieutenant, this is Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’

      Molyneux removed his helmet, and still seated firmly in his saddle, swept her a bow. ‘Mademoiselle.’

      Dammartin frowned at his lieutenant.

      Josie looked from the open friendliness on the handsome young lieutenant’s face to the brooding severity on his captain’s, and she was glad that she would be making the journey to Massena’s camp in Lieutenant Molyneux’s company rather than that of Captain Dammartin. Dammartin looked at her with such dislike beneath his thin veneer of civility that she was under no illusions as to his feelings towards her. Still, there were formalities to be observed in these situations, and she would not disgrace her father’s name by ignoring them.

      ‘Goodbye, Captain Dammartin.’

      ‘Unfortunately, mademoiselle, this is no goodbye.’

      Her eyes widened.

      ‘You travel with us.’

      ‘But you said…’ She glanced towards Lieutenant Molyneux.

      The lieutenant gave a small, consolatory smile and said, ‘I am afraid, mademoiselle, that there has been a change of plan.’ He dropped back, so that it seemed to Josie that he was abandoning her to Dammartin.

      Dammartin’s face was unreadable.

      ‘Am I to be exchanged?’

      ‘Eventually,’ said Dammartin.

      ‘Eventually? And in the meantime?’

      ‘You are a prisoner of the 8th,’ he replied.

      A spurt of anger fired within her. ‘I will not ride to act against my own country, sir.’

      ‘You have no choice in the matter,’ he said curtly.

      She stared at him, and the urge to hit him across his arrogant face was very strong. ‘I would rather be sent to General Massena’s camp.’

      ‘That is my preference also, mademoiselle, but it is no longer an option.’

      ‘Then release me. I will make my own way to the lines of Torres Vedras.’

      ‘Tempting though the offer is, I cannot allow you to do so.’

      ‘Why not?’ she demanded, feeling more outraged by the minute.

      ‘I have my orders.’

      ‘But—’

      A drum sounded, and a second company of French cavalrymen, not dragoons but Hanoverian Chasseurs, began to ride into the village.

      Dammartin shouted an order and his men began to form into an orderly column. The chasseur captain, who was dressed in a similar fashion to Dammartin, but with yellow distinctives on the green of his jacket and a dark fur hat upon his head, drew up beside Dammartin, saluting him. His face broke into a grin as he spoke a more informal greeting.

      ‘Emmern.’

      For the first time Josie saw Dammartin smile. It was a real smile, a smile of affection, not some distortion of his mouth out of irony or contempt. And it changed his whole face so that he looked devastatingly handsome. Shock jolted through her that she could think such a thing and, pushing the thought aside, she forced herself to concentrate on what the two men were discussing. They spoke in rapid French, discussing the land that lay beyond the village, and the quickest and safest method by which their men might traverse it.

      ‘Foy is like a bear with a sore head this morning.’ Captain Emmern laughed. ‘The delay has not pleased him.’

      ‘I am aware,’ agreed Dammartin. ‘I will have the joy of reporting to him this evening.’

      ‘The day has started well, then,’ teased the chasseur.

      ‘Indeed,’ said Dammartin. ‘It could not get much worse.’

      Emmern’s eyes flicked to Josie and the grey on which she sat. ‘I would not look so gloomy if I had spent the night in such pleasant company.’ He inclined his head at Josie in greeting. ‘Come, Pierre, introduce me. Surely you do not mean to keep her all to yourself? I swear, she is utterly delicious.’

      Josie felt the blood scald her cheeks. She ignored the chasseur captain, fidgeted with the grey’s reins, and focused on a peculiarly shaped rock high up on the hill to the side.

      ‘She is Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’ Dammartin’s eyes were cold and his jaw rigid.

      Captain Emmern’s brow lifted slightly with surprise. ‘They said there was a woman, but I did not realise that she was his daughter. What the hell could the man have been thinking?’

      ‘Who knows the workings of a madman’s mind?’ replied Dammartin drily.

      Josie’s fists clenched at the Frenchmen’s words of insult. With blazing eyes she glared at them, words of defence for her father crowding in her mouth for release. Yet the suspicion that flashed across Dammartin’s face served as a timely reminder that she must feign ignorance of their conversation.

      Dammartin edged his horse closer towards her, his brows lowered. ‘Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?’

      Even had she not understood his language, there was no doubting the accusation in his demand. This was dangerous ground, for she realised that by showing her emotions too readily she was in danger of revealing the one advantage that she had over her captors. The Frenchmen would let down their guard and talk easily in front of her if they thought that their words could not be understood by their prisoner. Any information she could glean might be of use, for Josie had every intention of passing on all she could learn to General Lord Wellington. She straightened her back and, squaring her shoulders, faced Dammartin, meeting his penetrating gaze directly.

      ‘I have not the slightest idea of what you are saying, sir. If you would be so good as to speak in English, then I may be able to answer you.’

      Dammartin’s face cracked into a cynical disbelieving smile, yet he switched to English. ‘Do not tell me that you understand not one word of my language, for I will not believe such a ridiculous assertion.’

      Josie did her best to appear outraged. ‘Are you suggesting that I am lying?’

      ‘You have been lying all along, mademoiselle…about that which you know, and that which you do not: the details of your father’s men, his purpose in these hills, his messengers…’

      She flinched at that and there was