A Regency Captain's Prize. Margaret McPhee

thin crescent moon hung in the sky and Dammartin could just about see the small, dark shape moving on the road ahead. He kicked Dante to a gallop to close the distance between them. One more curve in the road and she would be his, but as he rounded that last corner, with Dante blowing hard, the road was deserted.

      Dante pulled up, clouds of condensation puffing from his nostrils, the sweat upon his chestnut coat a slick sheen beneath the moonlight. Dammartin was breathing hard too, his heart racing, a sudden fear in his chest that she had gone over the edge of the cliff rather than let herself be taken.

      A small noise sounded ahead, somewhere high up on the left, a dislodged pebble cascading down. Dammartin’s gaze swivelled towards the sound, and what he saw made his mouth curve to a wicked smile.

      Josie heard the horse draw up below. Just a single horse. She could hear the rider dismount and begin to climb.

      One man.

      She had to know. Her head turned. She dared a glance below…and gasped aloud.

      The thin sliver of moon lit the face of Captain Dammartin as he scaled the rock face at a frightening speed.

      Josie redoubled her efforts, clambering up as fast as she could.

      She could hear him getting closer. Her arms and legs were aching and she could feel the trickle of sweat between her breasts and down her back, but still she kept going, puffing her breathy exertion like smoke into the chill of the night air.

      ‘Mademoiselle Mallington.’

      She heard his voice too close. Keep going, Josie, keep going, she willed herself on, climbing and climbing, and still, he came after her, closing the gap between them.

      ‘Cease this madness, before you break your neck.’

      She glanced back and saw that he was right below her. ‘No!’ she cried in panic, and pulling off her hat, she threw it at him.

      A hand closed around her ankle—firm, warm fingers. She felt the gentle tug.

      ‘No!’ she yelled again. ‘Release me!’ And she tried to kick out at him with her foot, but it was too late; Josie’s grip was lost and she slid helplessly down over the rock and the dirt, towards her enemy.

      Dammartin leaned out, away from the slope, so that the girl’s body slid neatly in beneath his. Her back was flush against his chest, her buttocks against his groin. The wind whipped her hair to tickle against his chin. She seemed to freeze, gripping for dear life to the rock face, before she realised that he had caught her, that she was safe. He heard her gasp of shock as she became aware of her position, and braced himself.

      ‘Unhand me at once!’ She bucked against him.

      He pressed into her, gripping tighter. ‘Continue as you are, mademoiselle, and you will send us both to our deaths,’ he said into her ear.

      She ceased her struggles. ‘What are you going to do?’ Her words were quiet.

      ‘Save your life.’

      Only the wind whispered in return, but he could feel the rapidity of her breathing beneath his chest, and the tremor that ran through her slight frame.

      ‘It is not in need of saving. Leave me be, sir. I will not return with you to the camp.’

      ‘Then you will be clinging to this rock face beneath me all damn night, for I have no intention of returning without my prisoner,’ he said savagely.

      She tried to turn her head, as if to glance at what lay beyond, but her cheek touched against his chest, and he knew she could see nothing other than him.

      ‘I do not think you so foolish as to throw your life away, Mademoiselle Mallington, no matter how tempting it may be to dispense with mine.’

      There was a silence before she said, ‘You climb down first and I will follow.’

      His mouth curved cynically. ‘We climb down together, or not at all. You cannot answer my questions with a broken neck.’

      He felt her tense beneath him. ‘You are wasting your time, Captain, for I will never answer your questions, no matter how many times you ask them. I would rather take my chances here on this rock face.’

      Dammartin understood then why Mademoiselle Mallington had run. The lavender scent of her hair drifted up to fill his nose. ‘And if I tell you there will be no questions tonight, will you come down then?’

      Another silence, as if she were contemplating his words, reaching a decision, just a few moments, but time enough for his awareness of the soft curves moulded against him to grow.

      She gave a reluctant nod of the head.

      They stood like two spoons nestled together, the entire length of their bodies touching. And it was not anger at her escape, or the jubilation of her recapture of which Dammartin was thinking; it was not even the difficulty of the descent they had no choice but to make. For the first time, Dammartin saw Josie not as Mallington’s daughter, but as a woman, and a woman that stirred his blood.

      She glanced directly down, looking to see the rock face below. Her body tensed further and she clung all the harder to the rocks, laying her face against them.

      He started to move.

      ‘No, I cannot!’ she said, and he could hear the slight note of panic underlying her words.

      ‘Mademoiselle Mallington…’

      ‘It is too high, we cannot…’

      ‘Just do as I say.’

      ‘I cannot…please…’

      There was just the sound of the wind and the rise and fall of her breathing and the feel of her body beneath his.

      ‘I will help you and we will reach the ground safely enough.’ He became conscious of where her hips nestled so snugly and felt the stirrings of his body response.

      She hesitated before giving a tiny nod.

      Josie had thought of nothing other than escape on her way up the cliff, but now she was aware of how very far the ground seemed below, of the loose, insecure surface of the rocks and the wind that pulled at both her and Dammartin. In the darkness she could not see what was safe to grip with her hands, and the skirt of her dress hid her view of her feet and where she might place them. A wave of panic swept through her and she thought that she might be stuck there, unable to move either up or down, but then the French Captain said that he would help her. He edged her to movement and the panic was gone. Slowly they began to descend the rock face.

      The warm press of his body and the clean masculine smell of him pulled her mind from the danger of the rocks beneath. He was gentle, encouraging her with quiet words when she struggled to place her feet, coaxing her to keep moving when she thought she could move no more. There was no anger, no harshness, no danger, and, ironically, as they risked their lives to reach the ground, she felt safer with him now than she had ever done. It did not make sense. She did not know this new Dammartin.

      She heard his exhalation of breath as they made it to the ground. The cold rushed in against her back as he moved away, opening the space between them. She turned, and was able to see him properly for the first time. Words of gratitude hovered on her lips, but she bit them back, not understanding why she wanted to thank him for saving her, when in truth he was the enemy who had just destroyed her chance of escape.

      For a moment Dammartin just stood there by the foot of the slope; the weak silvery moonlight exposing the dark slash of his scar, the lean hard planes sculpting his face, and the rugged squareness of his jaw. Shadow obscured half his face, making it impossible for Josie to read his expression, but there was something in the way he was looking at her, something in his stance, that made her wonder if this was indeed the same man from whom she had run. Her gaze dropped to hide her confusion and her feeling of vulnerability.

      ‘You do not need to take me back,’ she said, ‘you could say that you did not find me. It is a plausible story.’