Beguiled by Her Betrayer

‘Of course. I told you so.’ She set off briskly towards the camp so the donkey had to trot to catch up. ‘You are a very curious man, Mr Bredon.’

‘Strange or inquisitive?’ He had lengthened his stride, too, which would probably tire him again, but she was too flustered to care.

‘Both.’

‘I only wondered because it seems a strange thing to do, for an Englishwoman. To marry an enemy. But if it was love, I can understand.’

‘The French are no enemies of mine. I have never been to England and my grand English relatives do not want me, so why should I care for it? The only good thing I know of it is that it rains a lot there.’ She glanced up at the relentlessly blue, hot sky. ‘And there is no sand. But it rains in France almost as much as in England, Thierry said, and there are no deserts there either. I was looking forward to France,’ she added under her breath.

But not softly enough, it seemed. ‘It rains a lot in America, too,’ Quin remarked. ‘There are deserts, but those are easy to avoid if you want to.’

Cleo reached the tent and turned. ‘Is that a proposal, Mr Bredon?’

She had hoped to disconcert him, embarrass him even. Instead he laughed, a deep, mellow sound. ‘No, and you are teasing me, madam. It was a geographical remark, as you know full well.’

‘Daughter!’ Her father appeared around the side of the tent. ‘There you are at last.’ He picked up the bundle of letters from on top of the wilting greenery in the pannier. ‘Why have you not handed these over? And was there nothing for me?’

‘The soldiers are leaving, Father.’ Cleo led the donkey into its shelter and lifted off the panniers. Quin took them and began to dump the fodder out, tactfully, she supposed, leaving them to their exchange.

‘Leaving? But who will deal with my correspondence?’ Her father was going red in the face as he always did when thwarted.

‘No one. We are going, too, because the Mamelukes are coming. Mr Bredon has secured two feluccas and the villagers are coming to help us move our things early tomorrow morning. We must start to pack now.’

‘Nonsense. There is work to be done here. They will not trouble us, why should they? We are staying.’ He turned back towards the tent.

‘But, Father—’

Quin ducked out from the donkey shelter. ‘I am leaving tomorrow morning and I am taking Madame Valsac and her belongings with me. Whether you come willingly or attempt to stay is entirely up to you, Sir Philip.’

Her father swung round. ‘She will do no such thing, she will do as she is told and remain with me.’

‘Madame Valsac is a widow and of age, Sir Philip. She does as she pleases. And it does not suit my conscience to leave you here, however pig-headed you are, sir. If you refuse to accompany us, then I am afraid I will have to knock you out and sling you over that unfortunate little donkey.’

‘You would assault a man old enough to be your father! After I took you in, saved your life—’

Cleo slipped away into the tent behind them.

‘It was Madame Valsac who took me in and saved my life, Sir Philip. I imagine you would have noticed me when my corpse began to stink, but not before, unless you fell over me,’ Quin said calmly. ‘And I would not leave a man old enough to be my father to the mercies of a war band of belligerent cavalry, armed to the teeth and set on killing. So, what is it to be? Co-operation or force?’

‘Damn you, sir—’

‘Here is the key to the arms chest, Mr Bredon. I have just locked it.’ Cleo handed him the key and stood beside him, facing her father. ‘It is for your own good, you know.’

Sir Philip turned and stormed back into the tent.

‘I’ll take that to be a yes, then,’ Quin said. ‘You are truly a soldier’s wife, Cleo.’ He tossed the key into the air and caught it again. ‘Let us go and inspect our arsenal.’

Chapter Six (#ulink_5736e1eb-7ac6-590e-8769-149d4e03733c)

Cleo was extraordinarily efficient. Quin wondered if she had learned to be in her few months as a soldier’s wife or whether she was naturally organised. Probably the latter, he decided as he helped a grumbling Sir Philip pack his papers into trunks. From what he could see the man’s books and notes comprised most of the Woodwards’ possessions.

There were a few portmanteaux he had glimpsed in their sleeping spaces, enough for a limited wardrobe, but Cleo seemed to possess no ornaments or trinkets, only tools, kitchen implements and her medical kit.

‘We cannot do more this evening,’ she said at last, coming out to find him feeding the donkey to escape her father’s complaints. ‘What is left are the cooking and eating things and tonight’s bedding and of course the tent, but that comes down very easily.’

‘It does?’ Quin slopped water into the bucket and straightened up to look at the structure.

‘It does when you have done it as often as I have,’ Cleo said. ‘Here, there are some spare clothes of my father’s.’ She thrust a bundle topped with a wide-brimmed straw hat into his arms. ‘You will find it easier to relate to the soldiers if you look more like a European.’ She shrugged when he looked a question. ‘They do not trouble to get to know the local people. As far as they are concerned the villagers are either the lowest form of peasants or brigands—or both.’

Quin shook out a pair of loose cotton trousers, a shirt and a long, sleeveless jerkin. Not exactly the thing to be seen wearing at Almack’s, but ideally suited to the heat. ‘Thank you, I must admit to becoming tired of my skirts.’

‘They will be too big,’ she said as she walked back to the tent, ‘but you can use a cord as a belt. I will find something.’

‘Cleo.’ She stopped, but did not turn. ‘Leave it, I will manage I am sure. You look exhausted. Surely there is nothing more to do tonight?’

‘Just supper and heating the washing water and some laundry.’

‘Cleo.’ That brought her round, a frown between the dark slashes of her brows. ‘Come here. Please.’

She trudged back towards him, her usual grace lost in what must be a fog of tiredness. Quin opened his arms and gathered her to him and after a moment she slipped hers around his waist, leaned in, her face in the angle of his neck and shoulder. She relaxed against him and sighed.

Quin held her and breathed in the scent of hot, tired woman, the herbal rinse she used on her hair, the faint scent of mint tea on her breath, the dust that filmed her skin. He was beginning to care too much for her welfare, he knew that. He had a mission to perform and it was not certain yet that she was an entirely innocent victim to be rescued. This was all too near spying to be comfortable and yet it was his duty. This was no place to strike fine attitudes about being a gentleman. He sneered at himself. So anxious to be a true gentleman and not a bastard? This is the best thing for her, the authorities will bend over backwards to look after her welfare, if only for her grandfather’s sake. Your sensitive conscience can rest easy, Quin.

Cleo stirred in his arms and he forced himself to think clearly about her. She professed no loyalty to England, she had married a Frenchman for love and she carried her father’s suspicious paperwork back and forth to the troops. Had she any idea what was going on? She was an intelligent woman, but curiously sheltered from the real world. An innocent, an obedient daughter or a willing servant of the French?

Having a woman plastered to him was having its natural effect on his body and the thin robe he wore was not exactly designed to hide the fact from someone as close as Cleo was. Quin realised the proximity was having an effect on her, too. He could feel her nipples hard against his chest and her breathing had changed.

He wanted to make love to her, but that was out of the question. Back to his blasted gentlemanly sensibilities, he recognised with resignation. To make love to Cleo while he was uncertain of her smacked of a ruse to gain her confidence and extract information through pillow talk. He would die for his country, he would kill for it if he must, but he was not going to seduce a woman for it and if that made him a hair-splitting hypocrite, then so be it.

Cleo wriggled back a little and he opened his arms to release her, half-thankful, half-regretful. Then he realised she was simply putting enough space between them so he could kiss her. Who is seducing whom? he wondered. Or is this just for comfort? If it is, it must be hers, because it is most certainly not going to help me sleep tonight... To hell with it. He bent his head and took the proffered lips. Just one kiss.