There was only the sound of their breath between them.
‘Ma’moiselle,’ he whispered, and not once did the intensity of his gaze falter. His eyes had darkened to a smoulder that held her so completely she could not look away. It seemed as if she were transfixed by him, unable to move, unaware of anything save him, and the strange tension that seemed to bind them together.
Her eyes flickered over the harsh lean angles of his face. She was acutely conscious of the hardness of his chest and hip and, against her, the long length of his legs. The breath wavered in her throat, and she was sure that he would hear its loud raggedness.
‘Josephine,’ he said, and she could hear the hoarse strain within his voice. ‘God help me, but you tempt me to lose my very soul.’
His hand moved round to cradle her head. His face lowered towards hers, and she knew that he was going to kiss her. Slowly Josie tilted her face up in response, and the blanket slipped from her shoulders to fall upon the groundsheet.
A noise sounded from outside: a tread over the grass, a man clearing his throat.
They froze.
‘Captain Dammartin,’ a man’s voice said.
The spell was broken.
Margaret McPhee loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE CAPTAIN’S LADY
MISTAKEN MISTRESS THE WICKED EARL UNTOUCHED MISTRESS
AUTHOR NOTE
I was reading a book on the Peninsular War when, instead of concentrating on all the facts and figures, my mind wandered off (as it is wont to do!) and I began imagining the meeting between a handsome French dragoon captain and the rather brave daughter of a British lieutenant colonel. They are enemies simply because one is French and the other English. Can love overcome that? Probably so, I thought, particularly if he is wickedly attractive! But what if there is more to it than that? What if there is a more personal grudge that lies between them? Whether love will flourish in such hostile circumstances is a much trickier question, to which Pierre and Josie’s story provides the answer.
Just a very brief note on the history: General Foy’s mission across Portugal and his large escort of protective troops are fact, although it is not certain that the 8th Dragoons formed a part of the convoy. The fifth battalion of the 60th Regiment of Foot were deployed in the region at the time, but the village of Telemos and the confrontation between these specialist riflemen and Foy’s escort belong only with Pierre and Josie.
I am indebted to Professor Tony Payne for all the wonderful information he supplied, on the Peninsular War in general and specifically on the details of military uniforms and Napoleonic armies, although any mistakes are, of course, my own. I hope that he will forgive me the certain liberties I have taken with accuracy for the sake of the story. My thanks also go to Carole Verastegui, for her kind help with French language translations.
Pierre and Josie’s is a story of love against all odds, and I really do hope that you enjoy reading it.
THE CAPTAIN’S FORBIDDEN MISS
Margaret McPhee
Chapter One
Central Portugal—31 October 1810
High up in the deserted village of Telemos in the mountains north of Punhete, Josephine Mallington was desperately trying to staunch the young rifleman’s bleeding when the French began their charge. She stayed where she was, kneeling by the soldier on the dusty stone floor of the old monastery in which her father and his men had taken refuge. The French hail of bullets through the holes where windows had once stood continued as the French dragoon troopers began to surge forwards in a great mass, the sound of their pas de charge loud even above the roar of gunpowder.
‘En avant! En avant! Vive la République!’ She heard their cries.
All around was the acrid stench of gunpowder and of fresh spilt blood. Stones that had for three hundred years sheltered monks and priests and holy Mass now witnessed carnage. Most of her father’s men were dead, Sarah and Mary too. The remaining men began to run.
The rifleman’s hand within hers jerked and then went limp. Josie looked down and saw that life had left him, and, for all the surrounding chaos, the horror of it so shocked her that for a moment she could not shift her stare from his lifeless eyes.
‘Josie! For God’s sake, get over here, girl!’
Her father’s voice shook her from the daze, and she heard the thudding of the French axes as they struck again and again against the thick heavy wood of the monastery’s front door. She uncurled her fingers from those of the dead soldier and, slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she draped it to cover his face.
‘Papa?’ Her eyes roved over the bloody ruins.
Bodies lay dead and dying throughout the hall. Men that Josie had known in life lay still and grotesque in death—her father’s men—the men of the Fifth Battalion of the British 60th Regiment of Foot. Josie had seen death before, more death than any young woman should see, but never death like this.
‘Stay low and move quickly, Josie. And hurry—we do not have much time.’
On her hands and knees she crawled to where her father and a small group of his men crouched. Dirt and blood smeared their faces and showed as dark patches against the deep green of their jackets and the blue of their trousers.
She felt her father’s arms around her, pulling her into the huddle of men.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘I am fine,’ she said, even though ‘fine’ was hardly the word to describe how she was feeling.
He nodded and set her from him. She heard her father speak again, but this time his words were not for her. ‘The door will not hold them much longer. We must make for the uppermost floor. Follow me.’
She did as her father instructed, responding to the strength and authority in his voice as much as any of his men would have done, pausing only to collect the rifle, cartridges and powder horn from a dead rifleman, and taking care to keep her eyes averted from the gaping wound in his chest. Clutching the rifle and ammunition to her, she fled with the men, following her father out of the hall, past the door through which the French axes had almost hacked, and up the wide stone staircase.
They ran up two flights of stairs and into a room at the front of the building. Miraculously the key was still in the lock of the door. As it turned beneath her father’s hand, she heard the resounding thud of the front door being thrown open and knew that the French were in. They heard the sound of many French feet below running into the great hall and then the booted footfalls began to climb the stairs that would lead them to the room that housed the few remaining riflemen.
There was little to mark Lieutenant Colonel Mallington from his riflemen save his bearing and the innate authority that he emanated. His jacket was of the same dark green, with black frogging, scarlet facings and silver buttons, but on his shoulder was a silver thread wing and around his waist was the red sash of rank. His riding boots were easily unnoticed