The Price Of Honour. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
at the table again with an empty glass in front of him and stared out of the window into the darkness beyond it, as if he could see something, or someone, who haunted his thoughts and dictated his actions. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said, without turning towards her. ‘Sleep on it. I shall not disturb you.’
She left him reaching for the bottle to refill his glass and made her way up to the huge four-poster. It was all part of a macabre dream; he did not exist, the guerrilleros did not exist, Philippe had not been hanged. She was in bed at home and soon Jane would wake her with her breakfast on a tray. Home! How badly did she want to go home? How much was she prepared to pay for it?
OLIVIA was awoken before dawn by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and she sprang up to look out of the window. He was riding away in the blustering wind which had followed the rain, walking his horse in the same slow, deliberate way she had seen him riding the day before. Had he had second thoughts about his preposterous idea or had he decided to go alone after all? If that were so, he would never succeed in passing the guard at the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo, let alone impersonating Philippe. It was true he was about the same height and build, and in a poor light his hair might look as dark as Philippe’s, but in the glare of day, in the face of questioning… She shuddered at the risk he would be taking. Even with her it would be bad, but at least she could give him Philippe’s uniform coat and take him to their lodgings where she could hand over her dead husband’s papers and belongings. As long as he did not speak and met no one who had known Philippe, he stood a chance, if only a slim one.
She pulled herself up short. Why should she concern herself with a disgraced English officer? Why should she care what happened to him? And why, in heaven’s name, should she delay her own return to the British lines to help him? She did not even know why he wanted to do it. She laughed suddenly. She did not even know his name. And there were other puzzling things about him — his demeanour, his speech and the way he sat his horse indicated that he had been an officer, but officers did not usually carry rifles. And the Baker rifle he had with him was only issued to the élite Rifle Brigade and their uniform coat was green, not red. Tom had often said that if he had known about the Rifles before he signed on he would have enlisted in the Ninety-fifth. Poor Tom.
She pulled on the robe and went downstairs determined to put the man from her mind; there were more important things to think of. First, she would clean the clothes she had stolen; she would have liked to say ‘borrowed’, but as she could not see how she could return them, nor pay for them, ‘stolen’ was the only appropriate word. Then she would leave the kitchen and the bedroom tidy; that at least she owed the owner of the house for her unwitting hospitality. After that, she would set off again. The coast of Portugal was to the west, so if she walked with the rising sun at her back she ought, sooner or later, to come across the British lines, or the sea. Obstacles in the form of rivers or mountains, or hostile people, she would deal with as she met them. It was simple.
True, she would rather have had an escort, someone to keep her company and help her overcome the difficulties whatever they might be, but she had learned in the past two years to be resilient and self-sufficient, and when there was nothing else for it, what was the good of wishing otherwise? The guerrilleros would not help her and perhaps that was just as well; friend or foe, they were terrifying.
And as for the Englishman, he was too wrapped up in his own problems to concern himself with hers. But she could not stop herself thinking about him, wondering about him. Why was he in the mountains alone? Why had he been cashiered, if, indeed, he had? She shrugged her thoughts from her as she put on a cotton dress she had found in a cupboard; it had a brown background and was decorated with poppy heads in large red splashes of colour, a servant’s dress, she decided. The old boots and the straw hat completed her ensemble. Her preparations complete, she picked up the bundle she had gathered together and left by the door she had entered, carefully shutting it behind her. It was none of her business what he was up to.
She stopped when she saw him riding back up the drive, leading a mule. He was smiling.
‘If you think that bringing that will make me change my mind,’ she said, without bothering to give him good morning, ‘you are mistaken. I will have nothing to do with your hare-brained schemes. You are mad.’
‘But it is the mad ideas which have the best chance of success, don’t you agree?’ he queried amiably. ‘And I thrive on a challenge.’
‘You will not thrive on this one.’
‘With you at my side, I could succeed.’
‘Succeed in doing what?’ she demanded.
He laughed. ‘Do you know, I am not at all sure? I will put my mind to it as we ride.’
‘I will not ride with you.’
‘No? Would you rather the guerrilleros finished off what they started?’
She looked up at him defiantly but the tone of his voice suggested that she had not left the partisans as far behind as she thought. ‘They are not interested in me.’
‘On the contrary, Madame Santerre, they are very interested in you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I saw them riding down the mountainside, about twenty of them, armed to the teeth.’
‘They are coming here?’
He shrugged.
‘I do not believe you.’ But even as she spoke she realised he was telling the truth. ‘Why would they send twenty armed men after one woman?’ She paused. ‘Unless they are after you too.’
‘Whichever it is, madame, you and I are destined to spend some time together, so why not accept the inevitable? I will make a bargain with you. When we reach the main road from Ciudad Rodrigo into Portugal, you can go your way and I will go mine.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘If that is what you want. Come now, we are wasting time. Mount up and let us be on our way; the sooner we start, the sooner you will be rid of me.’
She would have liked to defy him, to refuse to do anything he asked, but the thought of riding instead of walking, and having some protection against the bloodthirsty Spanish partisans, was a powerful persuader. Olivia tied her bundle behind the saddle of the mule and, using the doorstep as a mounting block, hitched up her skirt and threw her leg over the animal’s back, aware as she did so that he was smiling. ‘Do you think I have not ridden astride before?’ she demanded.
‘No, it is evident that you are quite accustomed to it.’ He turned his horse and led the way, not back up the drive to the gates, but along a rough path that led from the side of the house, round an empty stable block and through an olive grove which went steeply downhill towards the distant river. ‘Better than taking the road,’ he said over his shoulder.
She did not answer but concentrated on watching where the mule was going, thankful for its sure-footedness as it picked its way over loose stones and the roots of ancient olives which clung to any tiny crevice where there was soil. When the path broadened out, he reined in for her to come abreast of him.
‘Tell me about Ciudad Rodrigo,’ he commanded. ‘All you know.’
‘I know very little. We had only been there one day, just long enough to find lodgings.’
‘Describe the place, the streets, the buildings, the defences, anything you can think of. How are the inhabitants behaving towards the occupying forces? Do the French have trouble with them? Is there any resistance?’
‘I would not think so. The town surrendered, after all. The resistance is in the hills.’