Secrets of a Lady

attacked our house a month ago.” Her voice had gone flat again, as it had when she spoke of her parents earlier. “My mother and father were killed. I was persuaded I’d be safer in Galicia.”

Jennings frowned. “But surely—”

“Our house was burned, Lieutenant.” She tugged at the neck of her gown. The fabric had been rent in two, Charles realized, then tacked together with a hairpin. “The livestock were taken. Half the household were killed, and I had no way to support those who were left. I paid them what I could and bought horses from a neighboring farm. Blanca and I set off for Galicia with one of the grooms.”

Silence hung uneasily in the wine-scented air. The fire gusted smoke out the open door of the cave.

Miss Saint-Vallier twisted her cup in her hands. She seemed to be unaware of the shudders that wracked her body. “We were attacked in the mountains, near where we found you. Afrancesados, I think, though I didn’t stop to ask their political affiliations. They killed my groom and took our horses. They debated what to do with us, but they didn’t have the stomach to kill us and it was too complicated to take us with them. So in the end they simply left us.”

“Bastardos,” the girl Blanca muttered, her voice sharp with venom. She was huddled against the cave wall, legs drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped round her knees. “I bit one of them. I hope his arm turns poisoned.”

Jennings’s eyes widened. Addison was startled into looking up from the cooking pot.

“I hope he suffers a good deal worse,” Charles said. “When was this?”

Miss Saint-Vallier tried to lift her wine cup to her lips, but her fingers were shaking too badly. “Early yesterday.”

More than twenty-four hours with no food and no protection from the elements save their cloaks. “We found a rock to shelter under,” Blanca said. “We drank melted snow.”

Miss Saint-Vallier steadied her fingers, as if from sheer effort of will, and took a sip of wine. “We knew there weren’t any towns within walking distance. Our only hope was that someone would pass by on the road. We couldn’t believe our luck when we saw the British uniforms.”

Jennings lifted his cup in a toast. “It appears you are as courageous and resourceful as you are beautiful, Miss Saint-Vallier. I’m afraid we can’t take you to Galicia, but I hope you will accept our escort to Lisbon.”

Charles didn’t care for the glint in Jennings’s eyes. He told himself it was because Miss Saint-Vallier was in no state for flirtation, but he knew that was only part of the reason. “You may have friends or relatives in Lisbon,” Charles said. “If not, I’m sure the ambassador will offer you assistance.” In fact, the ambassador was all too ready to offer more than that to pretty women, though he wouldn’t go beyond the line with an unmarried girl of good family.

Blanca rubbed her hand over her face. “She doesn’t have anyone. She’s the last of her family, thanks to those foul toads of French soldiers.”

“Blanca.” Miss Saint-Vallier gave a slight shake of her head. Then she smiled at Charles and Jennings with the formality of a lady accepting a gentleman’s escort on a morning ride. “We’d be very glad of your escort, Lieutenant Jennings. Mr. Fraser.”

There was little more that could be said. There was a great deal that remained unspoken. Such as what exactly had happened to Miss Saint-Vallier and Blanca when the French soldiers attacked their house and what the afrancesados had done to them before they left. Those incidents had almost certainly left scars, both physical and mental, which should be attended to. But three men they had never met before were scarcely the appropriate choice to minister to either.

Addison had returned his attention to the cooking pot with his usual tact. “Supper,” he said, as he ladled out the stew. “We’ve no meat left, I’m afraid, but I can promise you it’s the best corn and chickpeas you’ve tasted.”

The women ate as though they had thought they would never do so again. Jennings launched into a series of amusing, well-edited battlefield anecdotes. Charles sipped his wine in silence. The wine was sweet, but the bite of irony was bitter on his tongue. He was the last possible person who should be playing the role of protector to vulnerable young women. He had an abysmal past record. But for the moment, at least, it seemed there was no one else.

Miss Saint-Vallier set down her bowl and leaned back against the wine barrel. The skirt of her gown was tangled about her legs, and she twitched the dark blue fabric free. Her hand lingered for a moment, curled over her abdomen.

Charles’s wine cup tilted in his fingers. Damn and double damn. He righted the cup, his fingers clenched hard on the tin. Damn the French soldiers and damn the afrancesados and damn this damnable war. Miss Saint-Vallier’s situation was even worse than he’d feared. He’d seen women from harlot to duchess make that fleeting but unmistakable gesture. They’d all had one thing in common.

They’d been carrying a child.

Chapter 6

The sound of retching told Charles where to look. He’d heard it every one of the three mornings since they’d found Melanie de Saint-Vallier and Blanca Mendoza. The first time he hadn’t been sure. The second he’d lain awake, debating what to do, until she slipped back into the camp. This morning he’d been ready. He moved quietly over the rocky ground, past Jennings and the other soldiers, past Blanca and Addison, all still wrapped in their sleeping blankets. The fire he’d kindled flickered red amid the rocks. Fog hung thick in the air, clinging to tree trunks, shrouding the predawn glow in the sky. The brush of damp air on his skin brought a memory of home.

He’d slept little the night before. The meeting with the bandits who claimed to have the Carevalo Ring was to take place later this morning, at a rendezvous point just beyond the clearing where they’d camped for the night. He was ready for anything, including an attempt to take the gold at gunpoint without producing anything that remotely resembled the ring.

But at the moment, the ring seemed of far less consequence than Melanie de Saint-Vallier. Patches of dirty snow crunched beneath his feet as he picked his way out of the clearing. One of the horses whickered, and he stopped to stroke its muzzle.

She was kneeling by a line of pine trees that bordered a streambed. The fog blurred his view, but he could see that she had one hand wrapped round a moss-covered tree trunk. Her head was bent, her dark hair spilling loose over the green wool of her cloak.

“Miss Saint-Vallier.” He pitched his voice to be heard over the rushing of the stream, but he kept his tone gentle. He knew what cause she had to start when approached unawares.

She went still for a moment, then pulled herself to her feet and turned, gripping the tree trunk. “Mr. Fraser.” Through the curtain of fog, it sounded as though she was farther away than she was. “I didn’t realize anyone else was awake.”

“I thought perhaps you could do with some tea.” He held out the tin cup he carried.

She wiped her hand across her mouth. “Thank you.” She walked forward, her steps firm and deliberate. “The stew last night must not have agreed with me.”

He put the cup into her hand. “Very likely not.”

Her hands curved round the warmth of the cup. A gust of wind riffled through the pine trees, tugging at her cloak. “For once I think Shakespeare got it wrong,” she said, her voice bright with determination. “I don’t think man’s ingratitude could possibly be more unkind than this wind.”

“Shakespeare was a genius, but I doubt he had experience of the Spanish mountains.” He looked into her eyes, seeking a bridge to the painfully personal topic that needed discussing. “Not many Franco-Spaniards quote As You Like It in adversity.”

“My father got me to learn English by promising I couldn’t really appreciate Shakespeare in translation.” She took a swallow of tea, gripping the cup in both hands. “You’re fond of him yourself? Shakespeare, I mean.”

“Next to my brother, he was the closest companion of my youth. My brother would tell you I have an unfortunate tendency to prefer the company of books to people.”

She regarded him through the steam that rose from the cup. “You find you’re less likely to be bored or disappointed that way?”

“And then there’s the fact that I don’t have to worry that I’ll disappoint the