Fortune's Bride (21 page)

Frustration was a stronger emotion in Esmeralda than
caution, and although she had been strongly reassured by seeing Robert safely
in the rear throughout the early action, she had a desire to catch at least one
more glimpse of him. If she could see him once more, still in the quiet group
that surrounded Sir Arthur, she would be convinced he was in no danger and go
back to Caldas. That compromise eased her conscience, and to further assure
herself that she was acting reasonably, she carefully examined the area between
Amiais and Roliça hill with her glass. She could see nothing aside from a
country cart or two and a few tiny moving specks in the tilled fields, which
was reassuring. Surely the people of San Mahmed would not be out tending their
fields if there was danger.

Her departure was regarded with alarm, the woman of the
house asking fearfully if the British were running away.

“Of course not,” Esmeralda replied rather indignantly. “They
are advancing,” she averred with conviction, although she had not really seen
anything to support her statement. “They are now too far away to see properly.
I am going to ride across to Roliça.”

As she said it she felt uncertain again, but Carlos’s whoop
of joy and the village woman’s smiling nod—both of which, of course, were based
on her own previous statement—reassured her. Nor was there anything besides the
mounting heat to shake her confidence as they rode back toward San Mahmed.
There were farm carts on the road, and people waved in a friendly way from the
melon patches. Here, with the bulk of Roliça hill between them and the action,
even the sound of the artillery could not be detected, and it really seemed as
if any conflict was very far away.

When they were south of the village, Esmeralda asked a
passing woman about the road to Roliça. She pointed it out to them and
described the route with a smile that held neither doubt nor fear. Esmeralda
rode on, satisfied, thinking that if she could not see from the town itself,
she might find a way to the top of the hill. Intrigued by the idea, she
examined what she could see of the slopes.

They did not look excessively rugged, and when she and
Carlos reached the place where the hill bulged northeast toward the path,
Esmeralda knew that the village was just around the bend. There was the shining
trickle of a stream, which often meant a gentle slope, so she suggested that
Carlos take Luisa, who was more surefooted than Boa Viagem, across to the
hillside and see whether it might be safe to climb, while she continued slowly
by the path. She thought she would be able to parallel Carlos’s course, but
there was a little wood into which he disappeared. Still, he could not get
lost. Esmeralda continued around a bend in the path, her attention more engaged
with the hill than the road.

“
Halte
!”

The harsh command startled Esmeralda so much that she cried
out and jerked hard on Boa Viagem’s reins. Equally startled by the sudden
shouts and rough pull on her mouth, the mare rose on her hind legs and then
backed away. Simultaneously, a French soldier leapt up from the side of the
road where he had taken cover, displaying a musket. Esmeralda screamed again,
but it was less the sight of the gun that frightened her than the fact that
half the man’s face was covered with a brown crust of drying blood.

“
Halte-là! Descende de cheval
!” the man shrieked,
lifting the gun as if to aim.

Although she knew no French, the soldier’s meaning was
unmistakable. What was more, the blood, the uniform, and the gun all indicated
that the soldier had been left behind. He wanted her horse so that he could
return to his own army. The revelation came in a flash and was followed by
another equally swift, that he would not dare fire while Boa Viagem was moving
up and down, because there was a far greater chance of his hitting the horse
than hitting the rider. Moreover, Esmeralda was far more afraid of losing her
horse and having Robert find out what she had been doing—a real and immediate
terror—than she was of death, which was a concept that somehow had little
reality with regard to herself.

Immediately Esmeralda screamed again, much louder than her
first startled cries, kicked Boa Viagem as hard as she could, and at the same
time pulled back on the reins. Completely confused by the kicks that meant
go
forward
and the jerking at her mouth that meant
go back
, and
frightened by the loud shouts and wild gestures of the man ahead and the
piercing shrieks of Esmeralda on her back, the mare reared wildly, began to
plunge forward, was violently checked, backed and reared again.

The soldier shouted some more incomprehensible gibberish and
began to run forward. Esmeralda promptly uttered a whole series of
ear-splitting yells and beat her reins back and forth across the mare’s
shoulders, kicking wildly at her ribs. Since the restraining pressure on her
mouth was gone, Boa Viagem began to charge ahead, but her direct path was
blocked by the threatening form of the gesticulating soldier. Too mad now to
turn aside, the mare reared once more, flourishing her hooves in an instinctive
defensive gesture. The Frenchman staggered backward, tripped, and fell,
discharging his musket harmlessly in the air.

Esmeralda promptly stopped shrieking. She realized that as
long as he could not grab her or the horse, the soldier was no threat until he
could load his gun again. By then she hoped she would be well out of
range—except that Boa Viagem was so frightened that Esmeralda was not able to
turn her and dash away. She could have let the mare bolt ahead toward Roliça,
but she did not dare do that because she was afraid there would be other
stragglers, perhaps many more, even a band of them who might surround her.

Suddenly there was the sound of oncoming hooves. Inspired by
terror, Esmeralda wrenched the mare’s head around by sheer force and began to
kick, beat, and scream again. Boa Viagem struggled then yielded, leaping over
the Frenchman, who was desperately trying to roll away from her dancing hooves,
and galloping back down the path toward San Mahmed. In the next moment,
Esmeralda heard a harsh shriek of terror, which cut off abruptly only to be
succeeded by a shrill yell of triumph.

“Oh my God,” Esmeralda cried. “Carlos! That was Carlos!”

Desperately she struggled to check her flight. She had to go
back and see how badly Carlos was hurt. Surely the soldier would not have
killed a little boy. Finally, sobbing with grief and remorse, she was able to
stop the mare and turn her but before she could start back she heard Luisa
coming. Esmeralda sat paralyzed for an instant, but then Luisa burst around the
turn of the road. Esmeralda gasped and raised her reins to bring Boa Viagem
around, but she did not complete the movement.

Once the offer of the wine shop owner to send a guide with
Robert and his friends was comprehended, it was accepted with gratitude. After
regaining their feet, with difficulty and assistance, they set off. Fortunately
the distance was not great, and the night air was cool enough to restore a
modicum of sobriety so that no one fell by the wayside and all of them
remembered their purpose was to get Robert back to his wife. They were not very
noisy, but Molly, restless with worry, heard them discussing how to get into
the house without waking the whole neighborhood and leapt from her bed.

She got the door open just as Robert raised his hand to
knock. His reflexes being somewhat disordered, he made the motions of knocking
anyway, barely missing hitting Molly in the face. This unbalanced him so that
he staggered right past Molly into the house. Poor Molly was so startled by
this seemingly threatening gesture from Captain Moreton, who had always been as
pleasant a gentleman as anyone could wish to serve, that she jumped aside with
a startled gasp. She also recognized the smell of wine on him as he went by.
Her breath drew in again, and she hunched her shoulders defensively.

Molly had had personal experience with a generally
good-tempered man who turned nasty on drink. She cast a single glance after
Robert, but she had no intention of going near him or drawing his attention for
any reason. In fact, she swung around to the door, thinking she would be better
off spending the night in the stable with Carlos. This movement brought her
face to face with Lord Burghersh, who had just come carefully up the two stairs
that led to the entryway.

Both of them recoiled a trifle. Burghersh would have fallen
down the stairs, except that Captain Williams was close enough behind to steady
him. However, Lord Burghersh was scarcely aware of his friend’s support. Having
been startled by Molly, all of his attention was fixed on her. For the moment
he did not recognize her. He blinked owlishly, realizing there was something
very wrong. Servants who came to the door did not, in his experience, dress in
the kind of shapeless object in which Molly was wrapped.

“Me lord,” Molly whimpered, “no!” She had smelled him also
and seen the dark forms ranged behind him. Horrible tales of the cruel and
violent excesses of gentlemen had been whispered around her home village.

The English words had made a definite impact on Lord
Burghersh. He was still drunk enough that his balance was uncertain, but the exercise
and cool air had brought him to a moderate rationality. He peered more closely
and saw that the servant who had opened the door was Mrs. Moreton’s maid—not
improperly dressed, but wrapped in a blanket.

“Good God,” he said, “is it so late that you were in bed?”

The voice was thick, but far from being threatening there
was a note of apology in it, and his lordship stood quietly, except for swaying
a little, not reaching to grab her or trying to push his way in. Molly took
hold of her courage.

“’Tis viry late,” she said, trying to speak firmly but
unable to hide the quaver of her voice.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you, Molly,” he said, smiling
broadly. “We won! There’s nothing to be afraid of. Didn’t realize it was so
late. We…we’ve been celebrating.”

“Oh, Oi’m thit glad, me lord!”

Molly was glad, but she still didn’t want to let them in the
house, and she didn’t want to stay in it herself, either. As soon as her worst
terror subsided, she heard Robert’s feet going uncertainly up the stairs. Now
she expected momentarily to hear sounds she did not want to hear, but she could
not think of a way to get rid of Robert’s friends or to escape from them. Thus,
the quaver of her voice and the tense rigidity of her body were not much
reduced.

Alerted now, Lord Burghersh noticed, and he whacked his
forehead with his palm. “Fool that I am, you’ll be worried about your man. I’m
sorry, but—”

“Wait a bit,” Williams said, coming from behind. “That’s
M’Guire, isn’t it? Moreton’s batman?”

“Yes, sir,” Molly agreed, stepping forward eagerly, fear
forgotten in her desire to hear news of her husband.

“He’s all right,” Williams said. “I saw him coming into
Cash-Cazal da Sprega. He’sh all right.”

“Thank God fer thit,” Molly sighed, barely above a whisper.

The soft sound of her voice was not enough to cover the slam
of a door on the upper floor of the house. Molly jumped. Both Lord Burghersh
and Captain Williams looked up. “Oh, sir, me lord—” Molly began, her voice
shaking again.

“Never mind,” Burghersh said. “Won’t intrude. Know it’sh too
late for a vish-visit.”

They turned and, in concentrating on getting down the stairs
without falling, did not notice that Molly had closed the door behind her and
sidled away, jumping lightly down from the side of the small platform whose
steps they were negotiating. Discovering that the man from the wine shop who
had led them to Esmeralda’s lodging was still with them—he had waited because
he was not at all sure they knew which house they wanted—they demanded to be
taken back to their unfinished wine.

Inside the house, Robert had made his way up the stairs.
Here he paused for a moment, realizing that it was very dark, all the candles
having been extinguished. He thought about that muzzily until it occurred to
him that it was later than he and his friends had thought, too late for them to
visit Merry. He started to turn to tell them that, then remembered that Molly
had opened the door. She would tell them that Merry was in bed.

As he thought it, Robert smiled slightly, aware of a sense
of satisfaction. He would rather have Merry to himself. The smile did not last
long as he realized, with a sharp pang of disappointment, that if Merry was in
bed, he couldn’t see her either. He wanted to tell Merry that they had beaten
the French, and answer her excited questions, and tell her of his own part in
the battle. He stood in the corridor a moment longer, feeling sullen but
knowing he must go to his own room. Then he blinked. He had not spent a night
in Caldas with Merry. He had no idea which room was his. He glanced toward the
lower floor where Molly seemed to be telling the others it was too late to come
in, and thought of going down to ask where he was to sleep, but the very idea
of navigating down the stairs made his stomach turn.

This, on top of the angry feeling of ill usage he was
already experiencing, was too much. Damn it all, he thought, what if Merry
was
in bed? She was his wife. He could poke his head in and ask which room he was
to use without doing her any irrevocable damage. She would be covered, and even
if she were not, he had seen her in next to nothing already. A flush of warmth
ran across his groin and thighs, and unwilling to allow himself to think about
it, he opened the nearest door. There were windows and enough light to show
that it was not a bedroom. Robert slammed the door ill-temperedly.

Esmeralda had had a very exhausting day. Her shock had
almost equaled her relief when she had seen Carlos, well bedaubed with blood,
on Luisa’s back. Even after she discovered that the blood was not the boy’s,
she had felt little better. Carlos’s exultant description of how he had leapt
off Luisa onto the Frenchman and cut his throat certainly did Esmeralda no
good. She had felt no animosity toward the soldier who tried to steal her horse
until the fear seized her that he had hurt Carlos. Even then she had blamed
herself for the stupidity of getting into the situation more than the man, who
was only trying to escape.

Still, it was impossible really to blame Carlos either. The
boy could not have known that her shrieks were not the result of terror but a
deliberate action designed to keep Boa Viagem in frightened motion. Possibly he
had seen the Frenchman point the gun at her. Certainly he had heard the report
when the musket fired. Carlos might not have realized that the gun went off by
accident. He had been trying to protect her.

She had said it would have been enough to have taken the gun
away, but she had to acknowledge the force of Carlos’s argument that if he had
tried to do that, the soldier would have had opportunity to seize him or Luisa.
And to have ridden past swiftly, leaving the Frenchman with the gun, might well
have meant the death of some innocent Portuguese farmer who happened past with
a mule or cart. She knew the French had often been ruthless in seizing what
they wanted from the peasants. Nonetheless, she could not help wishing she had
not been the instrument of the soldier’s death.

What weighed on her spirits far more was the knowledge that
she would have to confess the whole adventure to Robert. She had at first
thought she could warn Carlos and Molly to say nothing; however, the boy would
not part with the musket and bayonet he had taken as prizes of war, and, on
further consideration, Esmeralda realized that sooner or later one of the three
would let slip too much. Then, if Robert questioned Carlos, disaster would
ensue. It would be better if she told Robert herself, in her own way.

She had spent some time composing her explanation before she
went to return the spyglass to Dom Aleixo. Returning the glass turned out to be
far less simple than she had hoped because the old man had insisted she keep
the instrument, but had extracted payment by asking questions he intended to
have answered. Esmeralda had found providing answers very trying, since the old
man was perceptive and
had
got the truth from her. Then he had Carlos
summoned from the kitchen, had tipped him lavishly and praised him for his
heroism, upsetting Esmeralda still more. By the time she returned to her
lodgings, she was nearly weeping with exhaustion and had barely been able to
swallow part of her dinner before she collapsed into bed.

Tired as she was, Esmeralda had slept through the entire
exchange on the doorstep. It was the slam of the door next to her own that
wakened her, and the dull crack was so much like that of the gun she had heard
earlier in the day that she leapt out of bed. Her first wild glance around the
room showed nothing. Esmeralda told herself she must have been dreaming, but
she was frightened, and she turned up the wick of the lamp that Molly had left
burning low beside the bed and lifted it high to examine the room.

Simultaneously, the door opened. Esmeralda drew breath to
emit a shriek for help and instead gasped, “Robert!”

If she was surprised, Robert was transfixed. The lamp cast
just enough light for Esmeralda to recognize him, but she herself was
completely illuminated. In the limited time she had had for sewing, night wear
was the last and least of her concerns, and she had contented herself with the
use of a thin shift for sleeping. In this, with the light glaring down from the
upheld lamp, she might as well have been naked, for the dark nipples of her
breasts and the dark pubic hair showed clearly through the translucent fabric.

The vision was brief. Having seen who it was, Esmeralda
immediately set the lamp down on the table and rushed forward. This gave Robert
little relief, for now the light was directly behind her and her body was
outlined in unbearably provocative relief, the curve of the breast bending inward
to the narrow waist, the swelling hips, the division between the legs showing
light and then dark as she ran toward him.

Even sober Robert might not have had either the strength of
mind or the will to withdraw. Drunk, he stood still, gaping. In any case he had
little chance to act. Esmeralda threw her arms around his neck and buried her
head in his breast. Unfortunately, Robert was in no condition to withstand this
loving impact. He staggered back, flinging out an arm to seek support. All he
caught was the edge of the door, which swung shut behind him, leaving him
precariously off balance.

Esmeralda managed to save them both, but she was badly
frightened again, thinking that Robert was weak owing to an injury. She should
have known better from his breath, but it did not occur to her that he was only
very drunk. He often smelled of wine—all men seemed to do so after dinner—and
she had seen him “a little on the go”, as the saying was. Still, she had never
seen him so drunk that he was unable to balance or articulate clearly or even
think logically. Her reaction was to swing him around and support him toward
the bed, where the light of the lamp fell most strongly and she would be able
to see him clearly.

When he was thrown off balance, Robert unthinkingly clutched
with the arm he had not flung out at the only solid support available, which
was Esmeralda. While this saved him from falling physically, it unbalanced him
further emotionally. He could not really feel the warmth of Esmeralda’s nearly
naked body or the softness of her breasts through his clothing, but his
imagination readily supplied all the missing sensations. So violent a surge of
desire gripped him that he uttered a soft inarticulate cry, yet his reactions
were slowed and disorganized and he could not hold Esmeralda when she swung
sideways.

Robert tried to protest, but before he could get his tongue
and lips under control, he realized Esmeralda was not trying to free herself
from his grip but was leading him toward the bed. This caused another upsurge
of desire but also awakened his conscience. He knew the desire was wrong. This
was not a girl for whom he would leave a few coins. Merry was a good woman…his
wife. His wife… The words echoed in Robert’s mind, riding dizzily atop the
waves of sexuality.

Esmeralda had loosened her hold around Robert’s neck as soon
as he made that first sound and had asked anxiously whether she had hurt him,
but she was herself so breathless with surprise and with the fear generated by
his staggering that her voice was virtually inaudible. Almost immediately,
however, she became aware of his grip and of her near nakedness. She meant to
ask again whether he was injured, but she was suffused with a violent sensation
to which she could not put a name, and her voice became completely suspended.