Regency Surrender: Passionate Marriages: Marriage Made in Rebellion / Marriage Made in Hope. Sophia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
he was well lauded for his prowess with both gun and knife.’
‘A lucky shot, then?’
She turned at that to look at him straight and her glance was not soft at all. ‘He was practised, but I am better. The shot went exactly where I had intended it.’
‘Good for you.’
A second’s puzzlement was replaced by an emotion that he could only describe as relief. The rosary was out, too, he saw it in her hands, the beads slipping through her fingers in a counted liturgy.
‘You have killed people before, too, Capitán?’
‘Many times.’
‘Did it ever become easier?’
‘No.’ Such a truth came with surprising honesty and one he had not thought of much before.
‘“And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death.” Leviticus, Chapter Twenty-Four, Verse Seventeen.’ Her voice shook.
‘You know the Bible by heart?’
‘Just the parts in it that pertain to me.’
‘You truly think that God in his wisdom would punish you for fighting back?’
‘He was my husband. We were married in the Lord’s house.’
‘He was a brute and any God worth his salt would not say otherwise.’
She crossed herself at the blasphemy as he went on.
‘Looking too far back can be as dangerous as looking too far forward in life. In my experience it is best to understand this moment, this hour, this day and live it.’
‘It’s what got you through, then? Such a belief?’
‘I’m a soldier. If I made it my mantra not to kill the enemy, I would have been dead long before we left the safety of Mondego Bay, near Lisboa. No, what gets me through is knowing who I am and what I stand for.’
‘England?’
He laughed. ‘Much more than that, I hope.’
He looked across at the land spread out before him, its valleys and its peaks, its beauty and its danger. ‘Democracy and the chance of freedom might be a closer guess. Spain is in your blood as England is in mine, yet who can say what draws us to fight to the death for them? Is it the soil or the air or the colours of home?’ Picking up a clump of leaves, he let them run through his fingers, where they caught the rising wind and spun unstopped across the edge of the pathway into nothingness.
‘We are like these pine needles, small in the scheme of things, but together...’ His hand now lay against the trunk of the giant tree on the side of the track, its roots binding what little was left of the soil into a steady platform.
* * *
‘Together there is strength?’ Alejandra understood him exactly. This war was not about Juan or her father or her. It was about democracy and choice and other things worth the blood that spilled into death to defend such freedoms. And was not personal liberty the base stone of it all? Papa had never taken the time to understand this, the residual guilt of her mother’s murder overriding everything and allowing only the bitterness to survive.
The waste of it made her stumble, but a strong hand reached out.
‘Careful. We are high up and the edge is close.’
She wound her fingers through his and kept them there, wishing she might move every part of her body against his to feel the honour within him. Could life be like this, she thought, could one person be simply lost in the goodness of the other for ever, not knowing where one began and the other ended?
This was a kind of music and the sort that took your breath and held it there around your heart with an ache of heaviness and disbelief. Hope lay in the knowledge of a man who had not given up his integrity despite every hardship.
Such foolish longings made her frown. Her clothes were dirty and the knife that she carried in the sleeve of her jacket was sharp. This was who she was. A woman honed by war and loss and lessened by marriage and regret; a woman whose truths had long since been shaved away by the difficulty of living from one day to the next.
He could only be disappointed in her, should he understand the parts that made her whole. Carefully she pulled away.
‘We should go on.’ Her voice was rough and she did not wait for him as she followed the path down the steep incline above the mist of cloud.
* * *
She barely spoke to him as they laid out their blankets that night under the stars and the warmer winds of the lower country. She hadn’t looked at him all afternoon, either, as the mountain pastures had turned to coastal fields and the narrow tracks had widened into proper pathways.
They had met with a sailor who was a cousin of Adan’s and he had promised to take Lucien across to England on the morrow. He’d also offered them a room for the night, but Alejandra had refused it, leading them back into the hills behind the beach where the cover of vegetation was thicker.
‘Is Luis Alvarez trustworthy?’ Lucien had seen the gold she had pulled from her pocket for the payment and it was substantial, but he had also seen the pain on the old man’s face when Alejandra had told him of Adan’s death.
‘Papa says that those who make money from a war hold no scruples, but I doubt he will push you overboard in the middle of the Channel. You are too big, for one, but as Adan’s kin he also owes the dead some sort of retribution.’
‘That is comforting.’
She laughed and he thought he should like to hear her do it more, her throaty humour catching. Tomorrow he would be gone, away from Spain, away from these nights of talk and quiet closeness.
‘Being happy suits you, Alejandra Fernandez y Santo Domingo.’ Lucien would have liked to add that her name suited her, too, with its soft syllables and music. Her left wrist with the sleeve of the jacket pulled back was dainty, a silver band he had not noticed before encircling the thinness.
‘There has been little cause for joy here, Capitán. You said you survived as a soldier by living in the moment and not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday?’ She waited as he nodded, the question hanging there.
‘There is a certain lure to that. For a woman, you understand.’
‘Lure?’ Were the connotations of the word in Spanish different from what they were in English?
‘Addiction. Compulsion even. The art of throwing caution to the wind and taking what you desire because the consequences are distant.’
Her dark eyes held his without any sense of embarrassment; a woman who was well aware of her worth and her attraction to the opposite sex.
Lucien felt the stirring in his groin, rushing past the sickness and the lethargy into a fully formed hard ache of want.
Was she saying what he thought she was, here on their last night together? Was she asking him to bed her?
‘I will be gone in the morning.’ He tried for logic.
‘Which is a great part of your attraction. I am practical, Capitán, and a realist. We only know each other in small ways, but...it would be enough for me. It isn’t commitment I am after and I certainly do not expect promises.’
‘What is it you do want, then?’
She breathed out and her eyes in the moonlight were sultry.
‘I want to survive, Capitán. You said you did this best by not thinking about the past or the future. I want the same. Just this moment. Only now.’
His words, his way of getting through, but she had turned the message in on itself and this was the result.
He should have stood and shaken his head, should have told her that the decisions made in the present did affect the future and