the city was emerging from its slumbers and the streets had started to fill. The number of vehicles had increased considerably, as had the flow of pedestrians. Barrow men, flower sellers, knife grinders and chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with candle makers, coal men and rag pickers; soon the trickle would become a flow and the flow would become a flood. It reminded Hawkwood of the rag-tag columns of camp followers that trailed in the wake of Wellington’s armies as they marched across the Peninsula. A meandering river of pathetic pilgrims in search of a promised land.
They were on the point of crossing the road when the rattle of carriage springs caused them to pause. Hawkwood stepped back and waited for it to pass. Then he realized the carriage was slowing. As it drew abreast, the coachman hauled in the reins and the carriage stopped. The door opened.
“Captain Hawkwood?”
The breath caught in his throat. He recognized the voice immediately. He stared. She was alone in the carriage, a dark cloak drawn across her shoulders. She leaned forward, inclined her head, and acknowledged Lawrence’s presence with a seductive smile.
“Good morning, Major.”
“Indeed it is, ma’am,” Lawrence agreed, doffing his shako. The major glanced at Hawkwood and a broad grin broke out across his face.
Transfixed by Lawrence’s imbecilic expression, it occurred to Hawkwood that the major did not seem at all surprised by the woman’s appearance. His suspicions were further heightened when Lawrence, in a woeful impersonation of spontaneous thought, pulled out his watch, gave it a cursory glance, held it to his ear, shook it, and announced, apologetically, “Ahem … well, now, if you’ll both forgive me, I must be away. Regimental duties, you understand. Fact is I’m due to meet up with young Fitz in an hour. I packed the lad off to his family for a couple of days. Thought it best, as there’s no knowing when we’ll be home again. As it is, we’ve precious little time to lick our new recruits into shape before we ship ‘em off to Spain.”
Before Hawkwood could respond, the major stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, my dear fellow. It was a pleasure. I do hope we’ll meet again.” He glanced into the carriage and gave a short bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Hawkwood had to admit it had been neatly done. One moment the major was there, as large as life, the next he was gone. If nothing else, one had to admire his nerve.
The rustle of a petticoat made him turn. She was gazing at him, her expression both mischievous and beguiling. “Well, Captain Hawkwood, won’t you join me?”
Hawkwood looked up at the driver. The man’s features were indecipherable, hidden as they were behind his collar and cap. His whip was poised.
The moment of indecision passed. Hawkwood climbed into the carriage. As if on a given signal, the driver flicked his whip and the vehicle moved off.
“You’re surprised to see me?” Amusement illuminated her dark eyes.
Hawkwood stared at her, his senses racing.
“Then perhaps my appearance disappoints you?” she challenged.
Hawkwood found his voice. “How did you know I’d be here?”
The cloak slipped off her shoulder. She was wearing a high bodice, but even that could not disguise the curve of her breasts. She returned his stare and, with disarming frankness, said, “The major sent me word.”
So, Hawkwood thought, Lawrence’s guilt was proven. No wonder the bastard had been grinning like a lunatic.
She smiled bewitchingly. “Did you think we wouldn’t meet again?”
He took in the smooth line of her throat, the soft swell beneath the bodice. “I thought it unlikely.”
“But you hoped we might?” Her eyes searched his face.
He nodded. “Yes.” He was amazed at himself for admitting it so readily. He recalled that she had addressed him by his former rank and wondered what other information the major might have given away.
“Did you kill him?” she asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.
Hawkwood collected himself. “Rutherford? No, he’ll live. He might die from embarrassment, but that’s all.”
She considered his answer in silence. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disappointed. He decided to match her directness. “So, why did you come?”
She looked across at him, the smile still hovering on her full lips. “You realize, Captain Hawkwood, we’ve yet to be formally introduced. My name is Catherine –”
“I know who you are,” Hawkwood said, before he could stop himself.
Her eyes widened. “And how do you know that, Captain?”
Hawkwood grinned. “The major sent me word.”
She laughed then, the light dancing in her eyes. I could fall for this one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered why, despite her obvious attractions, the possibility disturbed him.
“So,” he repeated, “why did you come?”
Her reply and gaze were as direct as before.
“Why do you think?”
Hawkwood lay pressed back against the pillow, his arm around her waist. Her cheek rested on his chest. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing softly. The bed sheets lay in disarray around them. They were both naked.
The carriage had delivered them to a fashionable house on the corner of Portman Square. There were no servants in evidence, other than a maid who had opened the door and curtseyed low before disappearing, at her mistress’s bidding, to her own quarters. Her services, she had been told, would not be required for the rest of the day. The girl had expressed no surprise at Hawkwood’s presence.
Once inside, her first action had been to tend his wound.
She had become aware of his injury when the carriage wheels hit a pothole. The carriage bounced hard on its springs, jolting Hawkwood out of his seat. He had let out an involuntary grunt of pain and pressed his hand to his stomach. Her reaction had been immediate.
“You’re hurt!”
“A scratch. It’s nothing.”
“Let me see.” Before he could stop her, she had pulled his jacket away. “My God! There is blood! You’re wounded!”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“But you need attention! A doctor!”
“The hell I do! I’ll not be prodded and poked by some damned apothecary. Bastards pass on more infections than they cure.”
It occurred to Hawkwood that he should probably have been more mindful of his language, given that he was in the company of a lady and not in some dockside tavern. The amusement playing across her lips, however, hinted that his vocabulary was not her main concern.
“Then you will let me take care of you. No, not another word, Captain,” she cautioned as Hawkwood opened his mouth to protest. “I insist upon it!”
The look in her eyes warned Hawkwood that it would be wiser not to resist.
She had shown him to a couch in the drawing room before removing her cloak and disappearing, returning with a bowl of hot water and bandages.
“Take off your shirt,” she commanded.
Hawkwood hesitated.
“Must I do it for you?” Her eyes flashed. “If you are concerned about my being compromised, there’s no need. My maid is discreet and gone to her room, and there’s no one else to disturb us.” She smiled. “Or is it that you are embarrassed? Surely not? Not my brave captain?”