‘Eventually,’ said Dammartin.
‘Eventually? And in the meantime?’
‘You are a prisoner of the 8th,’ he replied.
A spurt of anger fired within her. ‘I will not ride to act against my own country, sir.’
‘You have no choice in the matter,’ he said curtly.
She stared at him, and the urge to hit him across his arrogant face was very strong. ‘I would rather be sent to General Massena’s camp.’
‘That is my preference also, mademoiselle, but it is no longer an option.’
‘Then release me. I will make my own way to the lines of Torres Vedras.’
‘Tempting though the offer is, I cannot allow you to do so.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded, feeling more outraged by the minute.
‘I have my orders.’
‘But—’
A drum sounded, and a second company of French cavalrymen, not dragoons but Hanoverian Chasseurs, began to ride into the village.
Dammartin shouted an order and his men began to form into an orderly column. The chasseur captain, who was dressed in a similar fashion to Dammartin, but with yellow distinctives on the green of his jacket and a dark fur hat upon his head, drew up beside Dammartin, saluting him. His face broke into a grin as he spoke a more informal greeting.
‘Emmern.’
For the first time Josie saw Dammartin smile. It was a real smile, a smile of affection, not some distortion of his mouth out of irony or contempt. And it changed his whole face so that he looked devastatingly handsome. Shock jolted through her that she could think such a thing and, pushing the thought aside, she forced herself to concentrate on what the two men were discussing. They spoke in rapid French, discussing the land that lay beyond the village, and the quickest and safest method by which their men might traverse it.
‘Foy is like a bear with a sore head this morning.’ Captain Emmern laughed. ‘The delay has not pleased him.’
‘I am aware,’ agreed Dammartin. ‘I will have the joy of reporting to him this evening.’
‘The day has started well, then,’ teased the chasseur.
‘Indeed,’ said Dammartin. ‘It could not get much worse.’
Emmern’s eyes flicked to Josie and the grey on which she sat. ‘I would not look so gloomy if I had spent the night in such pleasant company.’ He inclined his head at Josie in greeting. ‘Come, Pierre, introduce me. Surely you do not mean to keep her all to yourself? I swear, she is utterly delicious.’
Josie felt the blood scald her cheeks. She ignored the chasseur captain, fidgeted with the grey’s reins, and focused on a peculiarly shaped rock high up on the hill to the side.
‘She is Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s daughter.’ Dammartin’s eyes were cold and his jaw rigid.
Captain Emmern’s brow lifted slightly with surprise. ‘They said there was a woman, but I did not realise that she was his daughter. What the hell could the man have been thinking?’
‘Who knows the workings of a madman’s mind?’ replied Dammartin drily.
Josie’s fists clenched at the Frenchmen’s words of insult. With blazing eyes she glared at them, words of defence for her father crowding in her mouth for release. Yet the suspicion that flashed across Dammartin’s face served as a timely reminder that she must feign ignorance of their conversation.
Dammartin edged his horse closer towards her, his brows lowered. ‘Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?’
Even had she not understood his language, there was no doubting the accusation in his demand. This was dangerous ground, for she realised that by showing her emotions too readily she was in danger of revealing the one advantage that she had over her captors. The Frenchmen would let down their guard and talk easily in front of her if they thought that their words could not be understood by their prisoner. Any information she could glean might be of use, for Josie had every intention of passing on all she could learn to General Lord Wellington. She straightened her back and, squaring her shoulders, faced Dammartin, meeting his penetrating gaze directly.
‘I have not the slightest idea of what you are saying, sir. If you would be so good as to speak in English, then I may be able to answer you.’
Dammartin’s face cracked into a cynical disbelieving smile, yet he switched to English. ‘Do not tell me that you understand not one word of my language, for I will not believe such a ridiculous assertion.’
Josie did her best to appear outraged. ‘Are you suggesting that I am lying?’
‘You have been lying all along, mademoiselle…about that which you know, and that which you do not: the details of your father’s men, his purpose in these hills, his messengers…’
She flinched at that and there was no longer any need for pretence; her outrage was all too real.
‘You are the daughter of a senior officer; your father must have arranged your education. I believe that in England even the lowliest of governesses teach the rudiments of French.’
The heat scalded Josie’s cheeks, and her chest tightened at his words. She might have been fluent in French, but that had nothing to do with governesses and everything to do with her mother. Mama and Papa had been the best of parents, yet she felt Dammartin’s implied criticism as sharp as a knife.
‘What time was there for schooling or governesses following my father around the world on campaign? There is more to education than such formality, and besides, my mother and father ensured that both my brother and I were educated in those matters that are of any importance.’ She negated to mention the truth of the situation.
Silence followed her inferred insult.
Still she did not drop her gaze from his so that she saw his eyes narrow infinitesimally at her words. He twitched the rein between his fingers and the great chestnut horse brought him round to her side.
‘Have a care in what you say, Mademoiselle Mallington. Such words could be construed by some of my countrymen as offensive, and you are hardly in a position to abuse our hospitality.’
‘Hospitality?’ Her eyebrows raised in exaggerated incredulity, and so caught up in her own anger was Josie that she did not notice the scowl line deepen between Dammartin’s brows. ‘You kill my father and his men, you lock me in a cellar for hours on end and interrogate me. Forgive me if I am surprised at your notion of hospitality, sir!’
He leaned in closer until his face was only inches above hers. It seemed to Josie that the angles of his jawline grew sharper and the planes of his cheeks harder, and his eyes darkened with undisguised fury. As awareness dawned of how much bigger he was, of his strength, his overwhelming masculinity, all of Josie’s anger cooled, leaving in its stead the icy chill of fear.
‘I assure you, mademoiselle, that I have been most hospitable in my treatment of you…so far.’ His voice was the quiet purr of a predator. ‘Do you wish me to prove it is so, by demonstrating how very inhospitable I can be?’
Josie’s heart was thumping nineteen to the dozen. She wetted the dryness of her lips, and swallowed against the aridity of her throat. ‘You are no gentleman, sir.’ Still, she forced herself to hold his dark, menacing gaze.
‘And you, no lady.’
She could have argued back. She could have called him the scoundrel that he was, but there was something in his eyes that stopped her, something fierce and impassioned and resolute that shook her to her very core.
‘I ask you, sir, to release me,’ she said, and all of the bravado had gone so that her voice was small