A Regency Captain's Prize. Margaret McPhee

dryness of his lips. ‘I could not expect her to attend to her…needs…in front of me.’

      ‘No? You were instructed not to leave her side.’

      Molyneux faced Dammartin with a slight air of defiance. ‘She is a lady, Captain.’

      ‘I know damn well what Mademoiselle Mallington is,’ snapped Dammartin, peering into the bushes. ‘Fetch your musket, Lamont, and a couple of troopers. We have not much time before the light is lost.’

      Molyneux saluted and moved away.

      ‘And, Molyneux,’ Dammartin called after him. ‘You’ll be tracking her on foot down towards the ravine.’

      * * *

      A calloused hand clamped over Josie’s mouth, a brawny arm fastened tight around her chest and upper arms, hauling her to her feet.

      She kicked out, her boot hitting hard against the man’s shin.

      He grunted and, drawing back his hand, dealt her a blow across the face.

      She made to scream, but his hand was already around her throat, squeezing tight, and she was choking and gasping with the need for air. She heard his words, fast and furious Portuguese, as he lifted her clear of the ground by that single hand encircling her neck.

      A cracked, grubby finger with its dirt-encrusted fingernail touched against his lips, as he looked meaningfully into her eyes.

      She nodded, or at least tried to, knowing that he was demanding her silence. The world was darkening as at last his grip released and she dropped to the ground, limp and gasping for breath.

      More voices, talking, and she raised her eyes to see five more shabby, dark-bearded men coming out from among the bushes. They were all lean to the point of being gaunt, their clothes dirty and faded, their faces hard and hostile as they encircled her, like wolves closing in around a kill. Bandits, realised Josie, just as Dammartin had warned.

      ‘Inglês,’ she said hoarsely, and raked through her brain for some more Portuguese words that would make them understand. ‘Não francês.’

      But the men were talking quietly among themselves, gesturing in the direction of the French camp.

      ‘I am British,’ she said, swallowing through the pain of the bruising on her throat. ‘British,’ she said, and tried to scramble to her feet.

      The large man, her attacker, pushed her back down and crouched low to look into her face. ‘I like British,’ he said, and traced a thick tongue slowly and deliberately over his lips in a crude gesture that even Josie in all her innocence could understand.

      ‘General Lord Wellington will pay well for my return,’ she lied. ‘W-e-l-l-i-n-g-t-o-n,’ she said enunciating slowly so that they must be sure to understand, and ‘g-o-l-d, much gold.’

      But the bandit just leered and spoke words to the men behind him to make them laugh. He spat and something brown and moist and half-chewed landed close to her leg.

      Josie’s heart was racing and fear flowed icy in her veins at the realisation of her situation. She skittered back, driving her heels against the ground, trying to put some space between her and the bandit, but he grabbed hold of her ankle and with one wrench, she was flat upon her back with the man climbing over her. She kicked and punched and tried to scream, but his mouth was hard upon hers, the unwashed stench of him filling her nostrils, the weight of him crushing her down upon the rocky soil so that she was staked out, unable to move. His hand ranged over her, rough and greedy and grasping, ripping aside her bodice, tearing at her petticoats and shift. She bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off, but he smiled all the more, and she felt him pressing himself against her, forcing his brown-stained tongue into her mouth. The foul taste of him made her gag, but he did not stop, not until she bit him. He drew back then, his face contorted, his filthy hand wiping the blood from his lower lip.

      ‘Bitch!’ he cursed, and lashed out, slapping her face hard.

      The men behind him were saying something, looking back nervously towards the dragoons’ camp.

      Josie knew she had only one hope. She prayed that Dammartin would come, and unleash all of his darkness, and all of his fury, upon these bandits. I do not lose prisoners, he had said. In her mind she called out his name again and again, as if that mantra would summon the devil to deal his revenge and save her.

      But the bandit’s hands were at her skirts, bunching them up, ripping at them, clawing to reach beneath so that she could already feel his ragged fingernails raking the soft skin of her thighs. The others gathered closer to watch, smiling with lust, and cruelty and anticipation.

      Josie’s hope weakened and began to wither, and just as it had almost died, she heard the French war cry, and knew that Dammartin had come.

      Dammartin saw the ruffians gathered round, and he knew without seeing what they were watching. He signalled to his men, sending Molyneux and a trooper silently through the undergrowth to cover one side, and Lamont with a second trooper to the other. And even while they moved into place, he was priming his musket ready to fire.

      He roared the war cry, the sound of it echoing throughout the hills and down across the ravine.

      The bandits reacted with a start, some reaching for their weapons, the others trying to run.

      He saw the flash of exploding gunpowder and the shots rang out, deafening in their volume. Three of the bandits were downed, but Dammartin was not focusing on them. He looked beyond to where the man was scrabbling up from a woman’s prostrate body, saw him snarl at her as he turned towards Dammartin, his hands raised in the air in submission.

      ‘Surrender! Surrender!’ the bandit shouted in garbled French.

      Dammartin did not even pause in consideration. His finger squeezed against the trigger, and the man dropped to his knees, a neat, round, red hole in the middle of his forehead, his eyes wide and staring, before he crashed facedown to the ground.

      When Dammartin looked again, Josephine Mallington was on her feet, clutching what was left of her bodice against her breasts, and standing over the bandit’s body. She was staring down at the gore the dripped from his head, her breast heaving, her eyes flashing with barely suppressed emotion.

      ‘Villain!’ she shouted, ‘Damnable blackguard!’ and delivered a kick to the dead man. ‘Rotten evil guttersnipe!’ Dropping to her knees, she lashed out, hitting again and again at the body. ‘Wretched, wretched brute!’

      ‘Mademoiselle,’ Dammartin said, and tried to guide her from the corpse, but she just pushed him away.

      ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Leave me be!’ She struck out all the harder.

      ‘Josephine.’ Dammartin stayed her flailing arms, pulling her up, turning her in his encircling arms so that her face looked up to his.

      And all of her anger seemed to just drop away, and in its place was devastation. Her eyes met his then, wide and haunted. Beneath the smears of dirt, her face was so pale as to be devoid of any colour, save for beginnings of bruises where a fist had struck, and the thin trickle of red blood that bled from the corner of her mouth.

      ‘He was going to…’

      ‘I know.’ Dammartin felt his outrage flare at the thought.

      ‘Like a rutting animal…’ And her voice was hoarse with distress and disgust. ‘Like a great, filthy beast.’

      ‘Josephine—’ he tried to calm her ‘—he is dead.’

      ‘And I am glad of it!’ she cried in her poor, broken voice, ‘So very glad! Me, a Christian woman, my father’s daughter.’ Her eyes squeezed shut and he thought that she would weep, but she did not. Her head bowed so that she stood, resting her forehead lightly against his chest. And he could not imagine the strength with which she held back her tears. Within his arms, he felt the rapidity of her breathing and the tremble that ran through her.

      ‘I