The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

she had no doubt, was suntanned and dirty, and she was painfully thin. No, he would hardly recognise her.

      She smiled to herself as she strode along the narrow pot-holed road, empty except for a bearded brown goat which had wandered down from the mountainside to crop the wayside grass, and a buzzard which tore savagely at the remains of a hare, anxious to have its dinner done before it was interrupted. It looked up as she approached, a juicy morsel hanging from its bloodied beak, but, deciding she was no threat, it resumed its meal.

      It was funny how easy it was to lose the knack of thinking constructively, especially when all her thoughts kept coming back to the same thing — it was her own fault she was in the mess she was in; she could blame no one but herself. She would go home and face the music. Would the fact that she had been widowed twice in as many years elicit any sympathy from her father? But was it sympathy she wanted? She had never been one to feel sorry for herself, so why should she expect others to be sorry for her?

      Tom Beeston was not a suitable husband for her, Papa had said; he was a nobody and she was rich enough to marry a title; he wanted her to marry a title. Besides, they were both too young to know their own minds on the subject. If she married Tom, she could expect no help from him if things went wrong. Young she had been, but she had also been determined and accustomed to having her own way, and this unexpected opposition had taken her by surprise and strengthened her determination. Married they were. Tom, she discovered within a month of the wedding, was a gambler, and before long was so deep in debt that she was in despair. But he had not been prepared for her to be equally stubborn about refusing to ask her father for help.

      At his wits’ end, he had fallen victim to the blandishments of a recruiting sergeant, so what else could she have done, she asked herself, but to stick by him and follow the colours? Not for a moment had she anticipated being lucky in the ballot which would allow her to accompany him abroad a few months later. They had hardly set foot in Portugal when the army, under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, had marched to free Oporto from the occupying French, and two days after that she was a widow for the first time.

      It was the usual practice for women in her position to marry one of her late husband’s comrades and carry on as before, but there was no one she liked well enough and she had had enough of the army. In the torrential rain which followed the battle and hampered the British advance, she had tried to make her way back to Oporto, hoping to find a ship’s captain softhearted enough to carry her back to England. Instead she had blundered into the rearguard of the fleeing French troops. They had seen in her an easy target and would have taken their anger and humiliation out on her if Philippe had not arrived to stop them. Not that she had given in without a struggle; she had seized one of their muskets and turned it on them before they had overpowered her, laughing at her furious kicking and scratching.

      It was his sense of fair play and his admiration for her courage that made him defend her in the first place, he had told her, but within days he had declared he loved her to distraction and no one would harm her while he was at hand to protect her. He was a lieutenant and very young, lonely too, she suspected, and highly susceptible. She had liked him enough to agree to marry him when the alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but she did not think she had ever been in love with him, any more than she had, on reflection, been in love with Tom.

      That had been over a year ago, and since then she had followed the French camp in much the same way as she had followed the British with Tom, living each day as it came and refusing to think of the future. It had been the same the night before; her only thought had to been to escape from the band of guerrilleros who had killed Philippe, not what she would do afterwards. But with the coming of day she knew she had decisions to make.

      The land on either side of the road was parched, the grass dried to the colour of ripe wheat which shimmered in a heat haze that made it look as if it were on fire. Behind her the mountain rose to a craggy peak; to her left the ground fell sharply away so that she was looking down on the tops of the pines which covered the lower slopes and partially hid the village in the valley. It was set on either side of a small river which reflected the cobalt-blue of the sky and looked cool and inviting. Should she make her way down there? Would it be safe? The problem was that she did not know if she was in Spain or Portugal, nor whether the area was in French or allied hands.

      To the French with whom she had lived for the past year she was English, and without Philippe to protect her she had no idea how they would view her reappearance, even supposing she could find them again. The British would, she was almost sure, look on her as a traitor, and she had no idea what punishment would be meted out for that, but whatever it was she would have to face it. It might be mitigated by the fact that she did have something to tell them. She knew the dispositions and the strength of the French army in the north and that it was unlikely that Marshal Soult, comfortably ensconced in the south, would come to their aid; Philippe had been more than a little indiscreet. But she would say nothing of that until she could speak to the right person, Viscount Wellington himself, if necessary.

      The goat made for the hills again as she neared it and the buzzard, replete, soared into the sky. She stopped to watch it go, shading her eyes with her hand, but, alerted by the sound of the clip-clop of a horse behind her, she turned, poised for flight, though there was nowhere to hide. But the rider seemed in no hurry, certainly not as if he was pursuing a fugitive. He came slowly into view over the rise behind her and she stood to one side to allow him to pass. The black stallion, she noticed, was beautiful — in much better shape than its owner.

      He wore a dusty red uniform jacket without braid or buttons to denote his rank, if rank he had, though he held his back straight and his head up as if he was used to command. His dark breeches and riding boots, though of good quality, were covered in the grime of many days’ travel. His hair, beneath his shako, was cut very short, and his face, though tanned, was unlined. He could not have been more than thirty, but there was about him an air of detachment, almost as if he cared not whether she was a helpless female or a well-armed enemy soldier. He might have been out for a quiet hack in the English countryside, though a new rifle slung on his saddle struck a jarring note. He seemed indifferent to her, or too exhausted even to bid her good day.

      She watched him pass, his hands relaxed on the reins as the horse took him down the steep slope and round the next hairpin bend.

      Why had she not hailed him? He might have been able to tell her exactly where she was, how far she was from the allied lines. He might even have offered to take her up. Long gone were the days when she would have been horrified at the very thought of sharing a horse with a complete stranger. But his whole demeanour had discouraged her from speaking, and a British coat meant nothing; it could have been stolen from a body on a battlefield. He could have been a deserter and going away from the British lines, not towards them. She wondered what would happen if he ran into the guerrilleros she had fled from during the night. He would need to be more convincing than Philippe had been.

      Poor Philippe! He had been badly wounded at Talavera and they had spent the winter at his home in France while he recovered. His parents had tried to be kind to her for his sake, but she was only too aware that they thought of her as the enemy and she could hardly blame them. Although she had been more than grateful for Philippe’s protection in those terrible days after Tom had died, she had never truly changed sides. Philippe himself had been restless and keen to return to the war, even though his regiment had been all but wiped out and the survivors had been posted to other units. They had arrived back in Spain in July 1810, just in time to be with Napoleon’s army when it took the Spanish border post of Ciudad Rodrigo. The French troops had poured into the town, only to find it bereft of food and supplies.

      Foraging parties had been sent out immediately and as the army was unlikely to continue its advance until it had been fed and provisioned — as always by the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside — Philippe had suggested a day out in the hills with a gun; they would shoot themselves a meal, he had said, and it would make a pleasant day out, just the two of them, away from everyone. The idea cost him his life and very nearly hers. And she was not sure yet if she was out of danger.

      She blinked hard in an effort to erase the gruesome image of Philippe swinging from the branches of a cork oak, his legs kicking frantically as the life was choked from