A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution

In the days that followed, Josie saw little of Dammartin. He was always somewhere in the distance, always occupied. Not once did he look at her. And strangely, despite that she hated him, Dammartin’s rejection made Josie more alone and miserable than ever.

But there was Lieutenant Molyneux and he was so open and handsome and so very reasonable. It did not seem to matter to him that she was British and his prisoner. He was respectful when there was nothing of respect anywhere else, and friendly when all around shunned her.

A hill rose by the side of the camp that evening, smaller and less jagged than those through which they had spent the day trekking. Up above, the sky was washed in shades of pink and violet and blue as the sun began to sink behind its summit. Something of its beauty touched a chord in Josie and she felt the scene call out to the pain and grief in her heart.

She turned to Molyneux in appeal. ‘Lieutenant, I would dearly like to climb that hill and watch the sunset. I would not wander from the route, which is clear and within your view from this position. I give you my most solemn word that I would not try to escape and that I would return to you here as soon as possible.’ Her voice raised in hope as she willed him to agree.

‘I am sorry, mademoiselle…’ his voice was gentle ‘…but Captain Dammartin…’ His words faltered and he started again. ‘I would be very happy to accompany you in your walk up the hill, if you would permit me. The sunset does indeed look most beautiful.’

She gave a nod of her head. ‘That would be most kind, Lieutenant.’

‘Then we should go quickly before we miss it,’ he said.

Josie smiled and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her and pulled her hat lower over her ears.

Together they walked up the hill by the camp side. And when the slope grew steeper, it seemed perfectly natural that Lieutenant Molyneux should take her arm in his, helping her to cover the ground with speed.

The summit was flat like a platform specially fashioned by the gods with the sole purpose of viewing the wonder of the heavens. Josie and Molyneux stood in awe at the sight that met their eyes. Before them the sky flamed a brilliance of colours. Red burned deep and fiery before fading to pink that washed pale and peachy. Great streaks of violet bled into the pink as if a watercolour wash had been applied too soon. Like some great canvas the picture was revealed before them in all its magnificence, a greater creation than could have been painted by any mere man. And just in the viewing of it, something of the heavy weight seemed to lift from Josie’s heart and for the first time since Telemos she felt some little essence of peace. Such vastness, such magnificence, as to heal, like a balm on her troubled spirit. Words were inadequate to express the beauty of nature.

Josie stood in silent reverence, her hand tucked comfortably within Molyneux’s arm, and watched, until the sound of a man’s tread interrupted.

Josie dragged her eyes away from the vivid spectacle before her to glance behind.

Captain Dammartin stood not three paces away. His face was harder than ever she had seen it, his scar emphasised by the play of light and shadows. He looked at where Josie’s hand was tucked into his lieutenant’s arm, and it seemed that there was a narrowing of his eyes.

‘Lieutenant Molyneux, return to your duties,’ he snapped.

‘Yes, sir.’ Molyneux released Josie’s hand and made his salute. He smiled at her, his hair fluttering in the breeze. His eyes were velvety grey and sincere and creased with the warmth of his smile. In the deep green of his jacket and the white of his pantaloons tinged pink from the sky, he cut a dashing image. ‘Please excuse me, mademoiselle.’

‘Immediately, Lieutenant.’ Dammartin’s voice was harsh.

The Lieutenant turned and hurried away, leaving Josie and his captain silhouetted against the brilliance of the setting sun.

‘I have tolerated your games long enough, Mademoiselle Mallington.’ The colours in the sky reflected upon his hair, casting a rich warmth to its darkness. The wind rippled through it making it appear soft and feathery. It stood in stark contrast to the expression in his eyes.

All sense of tranquillity shattered, destroyed in a single sentence by Dammartin.

‘Games? I have no idea of what you speak, sir.’ Her tone was quite as cold as his.

‘Come, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Do not play the innocent with me. You have been courting the attention of my lieutenant these days past. He is not a lap-dog to dance upon your every whim. You are a prisoner of the 8th Dragoons. You would do well to remember that.’

Shock caused Josie’s jaw to gape. Her eyes grew wide and round. It was the final straw as far as she was concerned. He had kissed her, kissed her with violence and passion and tenderness, and she, to a shame that would never be forgotten, had kissed him back—this man who was her enemy and who looked at her with such stony hostility. And she thought of the blaze in his eyes at the mention of her father’s name. He had destroyed everything that she loved, and now he had destroyed the little transient peace. In that moment she knew that she could not trust herself to stay lest she flew at him with all the rage that was in her heart.

‘Must you always be so unpleasant?’ She turned her face from his, hating him for everything, and made to walk right past him.

‘Wait.’ He barked it as an order. ‘Not so fast, mademoiselle. I have not yet finished.’

She cast him a disparaging look. ‘Well, sir, I have.’ And walked right past him.

A hand shot out, and fastened around her right arm. ‘I do not think so, mademoiselle.’

She did not fight against him. She had already learned the folly of that. ‘What do you mean to do this time?’ she said. ‘Beat me?’

‘I have never struck a woman in my life.’

‘Force your kiss upon me again?’ she demanded in a voice so cold he would have been proud to own it himself.

Their gazes met and held.

‘I do not think that so very much force would be required, mademoiselle,’ he said quietly.

She felt the heat stain her cheeks at his words, and she wanted to call him for the devil he was, and her palm itched to hit him hard across his arrogant face.

His grip loosened and fell away.

She stepped back and faced him squarely. ‘Well, Captain, what is of such importance that you must hold me here to say it?’

‘What were you doing up here?’

‘Surely that was plain to see?’

His eyes narrowed in disgust and he gave a slight shake of his head as if he could not quite believe her. ‘You are brazen in the extreme, Mademoiselle Mallington. Tell me, are all English women so free with their favours?’

Josie felt the sudden warmth flood her cheeks at his implication. ‘How dare you?’

‘Very easily, given your behaviour.’

‘You are the most insolent and despicable of men!’

‘We have already established that.’

‘Lieutenant Molyneux and I were watching the sun set, nothing more!’ Beneath the thick wool of her cloak her breast rose and fell with escalating righteous indignation.

‘Huddled together like two lovers,’ he said.

‘Never!’ she cried.

Anger spurred an energy to muscles that had not half an hour since been heavy and spent from the day’s ride. All of Josie’s fury and frustration came together in that minute and something inside her snapped.

‘Why must you despise me so much?’ she yelled.

‘It is not you whom I despise,’ he said quietly.

‘But my father,’ she finished for him. ‘You killed him and you are glad of it.’

‘I am.’ And all of the brooding menace was there again in his eyes.

‘Why? What did my father ever do to you, save defend his life and the lives of his men?’

He looked into the girl’s eyes, the same clear blue eyes that had looked out from Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s face as he lay dying, and said quietly. ‘Your father was a villain and a scoundrel.’

‘No!’ The denial was swift and sore.

‘You do not know?’ For the first time it struck him that perhaps she was ignorant of the truth, that she really thought her father a wondrous hero.

‘No,’ she said again, more quietly.

All that was raw and bloody and aching deep within Dammartin urged him to tell her. And it seemed if he could destroy this last falsehood the Lieutenant Colonel had woven, if he could let his daughter know the truth of the man, then perhaps he, Dammartin, would be free. Yet still he hesitated. Indeed, even then, he would not have told her. It was Mademoiselle Mallington herself with her very next words that settled the matter.

‘Tell me, Captain Dammartin, for I would know this grudge that you hold against my father.’

The devil sowed temptation, and Pierre Dammartin could no longer resist the harvest. ‘You ask, mademoiselle, and so I will answer.’

Dammartin’s gaze did not falter. He looked directly into Josephine Mallington’s eyes, and he told her.

‘My father was a prisoner of the famous Lieutenant Colonel Mallington after the Battle of Oporto last year. Mallington gave him his parole, let him think he was being released. He never made it a mile outside the British camp before he was murdered by your father’s own hand. So, mademoiselle, now you have the answer to your question, and I will warrant that you do not like it.’

She shook her head, incredulity creasing her face. ‘You are lying!’

‘I swear on my father’s memory, that it is the truth. It is not an oath that I take lightly.’

‘It cannot be true. It is not possible.’

‘I assure you that it is.’

‘My father would never do such a thing. He was a man to whom honour was everything.’

‘Were you there, mademoiselle, at Oporto?’ The question he had been so longing to ask of her. ‘In May of last year?’

She shook her head. ‘My father sent me back to England in April.’

He felt the stab of disappointment. ‘Then you really do not know the truth of what your father did.’

‘My father was a good and decent man. He would never have killed a paroled officer.’

‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle.’

‘Never!’ she cried. ‘I tell you, he would not!’

He moved back slowly, seeing the hurt and disbelief well in her face, knowing that he had put it there. He said no more. He did not need to. The pain in her eyes smote him so hard that he caught his breath.

‘What do you seek with such lies? To break me? To make me answer your wretched questions?’

And something in her voice made him want to catch back every word and stuff them back deep within him.

She walked past him, her small figure striding across the ragged hilltop in the little light that remained, and as the last of the sky was swallowed up in darkness Pierre Dammartin knew finally that there was no relief to be found in revenge. The pain that had gnawed at him since learning the truth of his father’s unworthy death was no better. If anything, it hurt worse than ever, and he knew that he had been wrong to tell her.

He stood alone on the hill in the darkness and listened to the quiet burr of the camp below and the steady beat of a sore and jealous heart.

Chapter Six

Josie avoided both Lieutenant Molyneux and Sergeant Lamont and headed straight for her tent. The smell of dinner filled the air, but Josie was not hungry. Indeed, her stomach tightened against the thought of eating. She sat in the darkness and thought of what Captain Dammartin had said, thought of the absurdity of his accusation and the certainty of his conviction. His words whirled round in her head until she thought it would explode. He never made it a mile outside the camp before he was murdered by your father’s own hand. She squeezed her eyes shut. Not Papa, not her own dear papa. He would not murder a man in cold blood.

Josie knew full well that her father, as a ruthless commander in Wellington’s army, had been responsible for the deaths of many men, but that was on a battlefield, that was war, and there was a world of difference between that and killing a man who had been given his parole.

Josie could think of nothing else. She did not move, just sat as still as a small statue, hunched in her misery within the tent.

A voice sounded from the flap. ‘Mademoiselle.’ It was Lieutenant Molyneux.

‘Please, sir, I am tired and wish to be left alone.’

‘But you have not eaten, mademoiselle.’

‘I am not hungry.’

‘You must eat something.’

‘Perhaps later,’ she said, wishing that the Lieutenant would go away, and then, feeling ungracious, added, ‘but I thank you, sir, for your concern.’

He did not reply, but she knew he had not moved away.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he said softly, ‘has the Captain upset you?’

She paused, unwilling to reveal the extent to which Dammartin had hurt her. Then finally she said, ‘No, I am just tired, that is all.’

‘He does not mean to be so…’ Molyneux searched for the right word in English and failed to find it. ‘He is a good man, really. He just never got over the death of his father.’

Something twisted in her stomach at his words. Slowly she moved to the front of the tent, pulling back the flap that she might see Lieutenant Molyneux.

He smiled and held out the mess tin of stew that he had collected for her.

‘Thank you.’ She took it, but did not eat. ‘What happened to Captain Dammartin’s father?’ she asked, and inside her heart was thumping hard and fast.

The smile fled Molyneux’s face. ‘Major Dammartin was a prisoner of war,’ he said quietly.

She waited for his next words.

He flushed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘It was a dishonourable affair.’ He cleared his throat and glanced away.

‘What happened?’ she prompted.

He did not look at her. ‘He was killed by his English captors.’

‘No,’ she said softly.

‘Unfortunately, yes, mademoiselle. It is a story famous throughout France. Major Dammartin was a very great war hero, you see.’

‘Do you know who held him? Which regiment?’

He looked at her then and she could see the pity in his eyes. And she knew.

But Molyneux was much more of a gentleman than Dammartin and he would not say it. ‘I cannot recall,’ he said. He gave a small smile. ‘You should eat your dinner, mademoiselle, before it grows cold.’

She raised her eyes and looked across the distance, to the other side of the fire that burned not so very far away from the tents. Dammartin was standing there, talking to Sergeant Lamont. But his face was turned towards her and she felt the force of his gaze meet hers before it moved on to take in Lieutenant Molyneux. She felt herself flush, remembering what Dammartin had said, and knowing what it must look like with her standing by the tent flap, and the Lieutenant so close outside, their conversation conducted in hushed tones.

‘Thank you,’ she said to Molyneux, and she let the canvas flap fall back down into place.

The morning was as glorious as the previous evening’s sunset had predicted. A cloudless blue sky filled with the soft, gentle light of pale sunshine. A landscape over which drifted small pockets of mist that had not yet blown away, and which during the night an ice maiden had kissed so that everything within it glittered with a fine coating of frost.

Josie noticed none of the beauty.

She thought again and again of what the Frenchmen had said, both of them. And the thing that she could not forget was not the terrible words of Dammartin’s accusation with his fury and all of his bitterness. No, the most horrible thing of all was Molyneux’s kindness. I cannot recall, he had said, but he could and he did. She had seen the pity in his eyes, and his silence roared more potent than all of Dammartin’s angry words.

She knew now why the French soldiers looked at her as they did, and understood the whispers. Yet Josie clung with every ounce of her being to her father’s memory, refusing to believe her gentle papa guilty of such a crime.

Molyneux was ever present during the long hours of the day, attempting to cheer and amuse her when in truth what Josie needed was time alone to think—time away from all of the French, even Molyneux. No sentries, no feeling of being for ever watched, for ever guarded, and definitely no Dammartin, just space to think clearly.

As they struck camp that evening, Josie waited until Dammartin and his men were at their busiest before making her excuse of the need to relieve herself. It was the one place to which neither Molyneux nor his men would accompany her.

Looking up into the Lieutenant’s face, she felt a twinge of guilt at her dishonesty, for Molyneux alone in this camp had tried to help her. But her need for some little time alone overcame all such discomfort.

‘Come, sit down, take a drink with me.’ The Major steered Dammartin back to the table and sat down. He unstoppered the large decanter of brandy and poured out two generous measures. ‘Here.’ He pressed one of the glasses into Dammartin’s hand.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Dammartin took a sip.

‘Snuff?’ The Major extracted an exquisitely worked silver snuffbox from his pocket and, opening the lid, offered it to Dammartin.

Dammartin shook his head. ‘Thank you, but, no, sir.’

‘Forget the “sir”. We are alone now. You are Jean’s son, and since my old friend is no longer with us, I look upon you as my own son.’ La Roque took an enormous pinch of snuff, placed it on the back of his hand, sniffed it heartily up into his nose and then gave the most enormous sneeze. He lifted his own glass of brandy from the table and lounged back in his chair.

‘So tell me, how are you really doing, Pierre? I’ve been worried about you since Telemos.’

Dammartin took another sip of brandy, and gave a wry smile to the man who had helped him so much since his father’s death. ‘There’s no need. I told you I am fine.’

‘Who would have thought that Mallington would have been holed up in that shit-hole of a village? There truly must be a God, Pierre, to have delivered that villain into our hands. I am only sorry that he died before I got to him. At least you had the satisfaction of looking into the bastard’s eyes while he died.’

‘Yes.’ And even La Roque’s finest brandy could not mask the bad taste that rose in Dammartin’s throat at that memory. ‘Yet I found no joy in Mallington’s death.’

‘Come, come, boy. What is this? At long last your father’s murder has been avenged.’

‘I know.’

‘We both waited a long time for that moment.’

‘Indeed we did.’ But the sourness in Dammartin’s throat did not diminish. He took another sip of brandy.

‘Jean can now rest in peace, and you can move on with your life.’

‘At last,’ said Dammartin, but his voice was grim.

La Roque drained the last of the brandy from his glass and reached again for the decanter. ‘Come along, hold your glass out, time for a top-up.’

‘I need a clear head for the morning,’ protested Dammartin.

‘I insist,’ said the Major, ‘for old times’ sake.’ He refilled Dammartin’s glass. ‘Let’s drink to your father. The finest friend a man ever did have and a hero for all of France.’ La Roque raised his glass. ‘Jean Dammartin.’

Dammartin did likewise. ‘Jean Dammartin, the best of fathers.’

They drank the brandy and sat in silence for some minutes, Dammartin lost in memories of his father.

And then La Roque asked, ‘What of the woman, Mallington’s daughter? Her presence cannot be easy for you.’

‘Mademoiselle Mallington does not affect me in the slightest,’ said Dammartin, and knew that he lied. ‘She is a prisoner to be delivered to Ciudad Rodrigo as you instructed, nothing more.’

‘That is what I like to hear, Pierre.’ La Roque smiled. ‘Drink up, boy, drink up.’

Josie sat perched near the edge of the ravine, looking out over the swathe of the rugged Portuguese landscape beyond. The air had grown colder with a dampness that seemed to seep into her very bones. She did not know how long it would be before Molyneux missed her, so she just savoured each and every moment of her solitude.

The fingers of her left hand kneaded gently at her forehead, trying to ease the knotted confusion of the thoughts that lay within. From beyond the trees and bushes behind her through which she had passed came the now-familiar sound of tent pegs being hammered in the distance, and the faint chattering and laughter of the soldiers.

She breathed deeply, allowing some of the tension, which had since Telemos been a part of her, to slip. Within this light the rocks in the ravine looked as brown as the soil that encased them. A bird called from the cool grey sky, gliding open-winged on a current of air, and Josie envied its freedom. The breeze fluttered the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin and loosed some strands of hair to brush against her cheeks.

She thought again of Dammartin and of his accusation, and as terrible and ridiculous as it had been, at least she now understood something of the French Captain’s darkness. He was a man drowning in bitterness and vengeance…and hurt. And all because of a lie.

Dammartin’s father was dead, but not by her papa’s hand, not by murder. Papa had been honest and steadfast, a strong man whose integrity was not open to compromise. But Dammartin believed the lie; she had seen the absolute conviction in his eyes. That knowledge explained all of his hatred, but little else.

Why had he taken her from the monastery in Telemos? For she knew now that he had never intended to honour her father’s dying wishes. For information? Yet he had known of the messengers, and not from her. And why had he come after her across the Portuguese countryside? What did it matter to him if she lived or died?

She thought of his coaxing her down the rock face, and giving her his cover in the night, of his kiss that had gentled to become… Josie did not want to think of that. So many questions, to which she did not have the answers.

A twig snapped behind her, the noise of a footstep upon the pebbled soil. Josie glanced round to tell Molyneux that she was just coming. But it was not Molyneux that stood there.

‘What do you mean she has not come back?’ demanded Dammartin. ‘Where the hell is she?’

‘She wished to use the latrine,’ said a white-faced Molyneux.

‘And you let her go alone?’

Molyneux wetted the 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.