Regency Surrender: Passionate Marriages: Marriage Made in Rebellion / Marriage Made in Hope

Lucien was honest in his own appraisal of the situation. ‘Well, the Spanish generals have done themselves no favour, señor, and it’s lucky the French are in such disorder. If Napoleon himself had taken the trouble to be in the Iberian Peninsula, instead of leaving it to his brother, I doubt anything would be left.’

The older man swore. ‘Spain has no use for men who usurp a crown and the royal Bourbons are powerless to fight back. It is only the likes of the partisans that will throw the French from España, for the army, too, is useless in its fractured purpose.’

Privately Lucien agreed, but he did not say so. The juntas were splintered and largely ineffective. John Moore and the British expeditionary force had found that out the hard way, the promise of a Spanish force of men never eventuating, but sliding away into quarrel.

The girl was listening intently, her eyes wary beneath the rim of the same cap she had worn each time he had seen her. Today the jacket was different, though. Something stolen from an English foot soldier, he guessed, the scarlet suiting her tone of skin. He flipped his glance from her as quickly as it settled. She had given him her warnings already and he owed her that much.

The older man moved back, the glint of metal in his leather belt. ‘Soult and Ney are trampling over the north as we speak, but the south is still free.’

‘Because the British expeditionary forces dragged any opposition up here with them as they came.’

‘Perhaps,’ the other man agreed, dark eyes thoughtful. ‘How is it you know our language so well?’

‘I was in Dominica for a number of years before coming to Madeira.’

‘The dialects would be different.’ The room was still, waiting, a sense of menace and distrust covering politeness.

For the first time in days Lucien smiled. ‘Every tutor I had said I was gifted in hearing the cadence of words and I have been in Spain for a while.’

‘Why were you found behind the English lines? The Eighteenth Dragoons were miles away. Why were you not there with them?’

‘I was scouting the ocean for the British transports under the direction of General Moore. They were late coming into the harbour and he was worried.’

‘A spy, then.’

‘I myself prefer the title of intelligence officer.’

‘Semantics.’ The older man laughed, though, and the tension lessened.

When Lucien chanced a look at the girl he saw she watched him with a frown across her brow. Today there was a bruise on her left cheek that was darkening into purple. It had not been there yesterday.

Undercurrents.

The older man was not pleased by Lucien’s presence in the house and the Catalan escopeta in his cartouche belt was close. One wrong word could decide Lucien’s fate. He stayed silent whilst he tried to weigh up his options and he listened as the other man spoke.

‘Every man and woman in Spain is armed with a flask of poison, a garrotting cord or a knife. Napoleon is not the liberator here and his troops will not triumph. The Treaty of Tilsit was his star as its zenith, but now the power and the glory have begun to fade. C’est le commencement de la fin, Capitán, and the French know it.’

‘Something Talleyrand said, I think? Hopefully prophetic.’ Lucien had heard rumours that the crafty French bishop was seeking to negotiate a secure peace behind his emperor’s back so as to perpetuate and solidify the gains made during the French revolution.

El Vengador stepped forward. ‘You are well informed. But our channels of intelligence are healthy, too, and one must watch what one utters to a stranger, would you not agree, Capitán? Best to hold your secrets close.’

And your enemies closer? A warning masked beneath the cloth of politics? Simple. Intimidating. Lucien resisted any urge to once again glance at his rescuer in the corner.

He nodded without candour and was relieved as the other man moved back.

‘You will be sent by boat to England. Tomeu will take you. But I would ask something of you before you leave us. Your rank will allow you access to the higher echelons of the English military and we need to know the intentions of the British parliament’s actions against the French here in Spain. Someone will contact you wearing this.’ He brought a ruby brooch out of his pocket to show him, the gem substantial and the gold catching the light. ‘Any information you can gather would be helpful. Sometimes it is the very smallest of facts that can make a difference.’

And with that he was gone, leaving his daughter behind as the others departed with him.

‘He trusts you.’ Her words came quietly. ‘He would not have let this meeting run on for as long as it has if he did not.’

‘He knows I know about...?’ One hand gestured towards her.

‘That I am a girl? Indeed. Did you not hear his warning?’

‘Then why did he leave you here? Now?’

At that she laughed. ‘You cannot guess, Capitán?’ Her green eyes glittered with the look of one who knew her worth. To the cause. To her father. To the machinations of a guerrilla movement whose very lifeblood depended on good information and loyal carriers.

‘Hell. It is you he will send?’

‘A woman can move in many circles that a man cannot.’ There was challenge in her words as she lifted her chin and the swollen mark on her cheek was easier to see.

‘Who hit you?’

‘In a place of war, emotions can run high.’

For the first time in his company she blushed and he caught her left hand. The softness of her skin wound around his warmth.

‘How old are you?’

‘Nearly twenty-three.’

‘Old enough to know the dangers of subterfuge, then? Old enough to realise that men might not all be...kind?’

‘You warn me of the masculine appetite?’

‘That is one way of putting it, I suppose.’

‘This is Spain, Capitán, and I am hardly a green girl.’

‘You are married?’

She did not answer.

‘You were married, but he is dead.’

Horror marked her face. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

With care he extended her palm and pointed to her third finger. ‘The skin is paler where you once wore a ring. Just here.’

* * *

She felt the lump at the back of her throat hitch up into fear. She felt other things, too, things she had no mandate to as she wrenched away from his touch and went to stand by the window, the blood that throbbed at her temples making her feel slightly sick.

‘How are you called? By your friends?’

‘Lucien.’