Beyond the Sunrise (21 page)

“I will be too heavy for you,” she said, and was surprised by the sleepiness of her own voice.

“Don't talk nonsense, Joana,” he said. “Go to sleep. This is as good a way as any of holding you prisoner.”

“Guards are not supposed to have sexual relations with their prisoners,” she said, moving her cheek until it was quite comfortable. She could hear his heart beating steadily against her ear.

“Neither are prisoners with their guards,” he said.

“But prisoners will do anything to be free,” she said.

“You are not going to be free.” One of his hands caressed the back of her head. “Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. We have, after all, always admitted to a physical attraction to each other. We have merely acted on that attraction—to our mutual satisfaction, it seems. Whoever calls you a lady, Joana, has obviously never had you between the sheets. But I did not know there was such a man left.”

“Go to the devil,” she said.

“Go to sleep.”

*   *   *

He
knew with that extra sense that had developed during the past ten years that dawn was not far off. They should be up soon and on their way. If Colonel Leroux and his men intended to bring their horses on the pursuit—even assuming he and Joana had been seen against the skyline the day before—they would have to make a wide detour. And then they would have to do some careful tracking. It was unlikely that they would be a threat that day. But even so . . .

He stared out at the night sky, one hand propped beneath his head, the other playing absently with Joana's hair. He must have slept quite soundly for several hours. And so must she. She had not moved
since she had told him to go to the devil. And she was still deeply asleep.

Her legs were going to be stiff, he thought, feeling them against the outside of his. But at least he had been able to give her a softer bed than the stone floor of the cave. He smiled grimly into the darkness. And was it important that she be shielded? He thought of the underground cell in which he had recently spent five days, courtesy of the Marquesa das Minas, and of the daily exercise several French soldiers had taken there at his expense. Making love to her the night before had not been a painless experience.

Making love to her! He closed his eyes again. His one hand still fondled her hair. And he thought of Jeanne Morisette, that beautiful eager young girl who had sworn that she would always love him, who had sworn that she would marry him one day. And of the gentle young dreamer who had lain beside her there at the lake at Haddington, swearing to ride off with her on a white charger on her eighteenth birthday to the land of happily-ever-after, only half in jest.

And he thought of the same young girl laughing at him and calling him bastard and scorning him because he had dared to lift his eyes to the daughter of a count and weave dreams about her.

And he thought of the Marquesa das Minas as he had first seen her in a ballroom in Lisbon and of his first impression of her as lovely and expensive and far beyond his touch. And of the warm, disheveled woman who lay on him now, no longer smelling of expensive perfumes, but only of woman.

All woman and no lady at all. He thought of the way she had undressed him and caressed him the night before after fighting him like a wild thing when he had had the initiative. And of the way she had mounted him while he had lain passive, terrified that because she was his prisoner any violation of her person would be rape.

No lady at all. All bold and voracious woman.

And such thoughts were not to be indulged in. Already he was aware again of every soft, shapely inch of her against him. He was still inside her. If he was not careful, he would be growing again.
Once was enough. They had both made their points. But when all was said and done, they were enemies. Bitter, implacable enemies. Once her French lover caught up to them—if he did—she would be doing all in her power to have her jailer killed or returned to that cell in Salamanca. And in the meanwhile he would be doing all in his power to deliver her to Lord Wellington and certain incarceration for what remained of the war against France.

Joana would hate imprisonment. She would rage against it, like a bird in a cage. He would not think of it.

“Hey,” he said, “time to wake up.”

She stirred. “Nonsense,” she said sleepily. “It is not even daylight yet. You are comfortable, Robert.” She sighed.

Damn the woman. She always said the wrong thing. And did she think she could lie abed until noon?

She wriggled against him and sighed again. He gritted his teeth and willed his body to calmness.

“Will you give me my gun and knife back today?” she asked. “If I promise faithfully not to use them on you, Robert? I shall use them against the French. I do not wish to go back with them anyway, you know. I want to stay with you.”

“I see,” he said. “Instant love from one bedding, Joana? I was that good? And now you intend to follow me about, the meek and faithful little woman, for the rest of my life?”

She snorted. “You can forget that pleasant masculine dream,” she said. “I will never be meek, Robert. But I will kill Frenchmen with you. May I have my gun?”

“Yes, certainly,” he said, “and my rifle and sword too, Joana. When hell freezes over, that is.”

“I hope you are there when it happens, then,” she said. “So that you cannot claw your way upward to fresh air and freedom. I thought you would trust me after last night.”

“As I would a deadly snake,” he said.

“Would you believe me if I told you that you are the only lover I have ever had apart from my husband?” she asked.

“Not for a single moment,” he said.

“I did not think so,” she said. “And he was dreadful, Robert. He preferred young boys, you know. Is that not ironic and a little lowering? You were wonderful. Are we to be lovers during this journey of ours—until Marcel catches up to us and cuts you into a thousand pieces?”

You were wonderful. Are we to be lovers 
. . . ? The words of a practiced flirt and compulsive liar. But of course they were having their effect, as she must have known they would. Goddamn the woman. Goddamn her to hell and back.

“We mated last night,” he said. “We were not lovers, Joana, and never could be. We coupled.”

“Ah,” she said, and sighed and squirmed against his chest again. “Are we to be mates for a while, then? A couple? You are growing hard again, are you not?”

“Damn you, Joana,” he said. “Do you always blurt out whatever embarrassing observation leaps into your mind?”

She lifted her head and looked up into his face. And she smiled slowly in that way that could always raise his temperature a degree. “Are you embarrassed?” she asked. “I think it feels rather lovely. Are we to mate again?”

He lifted her off him and set her on the floor beside him. He could see her face clearly—another sign that dawn was approaching. “Is that what you want?” he asked her harshly. “To be used as my plaything until I can deliver you over to proper captivity? That is all you would be, and that is what I will do with you in the end, Joana, no matter how many times I may have taken my pleasure of you in the meanwhile.”

Her smile was dreamy. “And you shall be my plaything,” she said. “I shall draw pleasure from you, Robert, and give you infinite pleasure too—oh, yes, pleasure to infinity; it is a promise—until Marcel does with you whatever he has in store for you. Make lo . . . No, mate with me. Couple with me.”

“Joana.” He leaned over and kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She
had an insatiable appetite, it seemed. He might have guessed it. But whereas she was normally surrounded by countless men only too willing and eager to satisfy it, now there was only he. And he, poor fool, was flattered by her need for him, excited by it.

He spread his hands beneath her buttocks when he came over on top of her, intent on cushioning her against the floor as he drove his desire into her. But she showed no signs of discomfort. She set her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes, her lips parted, and lay uncharacteristically still.

“Oh,” she said as she was coming to her climax. And she bit on her lower lip and opened her eyes to look up into his while it happened. “Oh,” she said afterward when he finally lay still on her, and one of her hands played gently with his hair. “I had no idea it could be beautiful like this, Robert. I had no idea.”

It was unfair, he thought—but since when had he expected Joana to play fair? She spoke when he was at his most vulnerable, when he had just spilled his love—no, not his love, his seed—into her and was sated and tired again. She spoke at a time when he most wanted to believe her.

It was time to be up and on their way. Time for daylight. Time for sanity. Time to see her and know her for what she was again.

But God, she was a beautiful woman to love—to mate with, to couple with. He used a more obscene word in his mind to set in perspective what had happened between them twice in the night.

“Get up and dress,” he said, rolling off her and slapping her sharply on one bare buttock as he did so. “It is time we were on our way.”

She sat up. “You know, Robert,” she said, “one day I am going to do that to you. It is not very pleasant.”

“I am not your prisoner,” he said.

“Oh, I think you are.” She smiled up at him. “Though you will never admit it, I suppose.” She shrugged. “And that is what I like most about you.” She got to her feet, ignoring the hand he stretched down for her assistance, and brushed at her dress. “Ugh! Creases.
The Marquesa das Minas would have a major fit of the vapors if she were expected to wear this.”

She looked up at him and laughed. “But then, the marquesa is a tiresome bore, is she not? Nothing to do all day but flirt and look helpless and invent errands for besotted gentlemen to run. I think I would go mad if there were not Joana Ribeiro to become occasionally.”

“Joana
who
?”
he said.

“Joana Ribeiro,” she said. “My fantasy self, Robert. The self who mated with you a few minutes ago and last night. You do not believe the marquesa would ever have done that, do you? She is at home only in the world of flirtation. Besides, you are not a gentleman and she is a lady. And besides again, she would have demanded a feather bed. Joana Ribeiro is a wonderful fantasy.”

She could be so enchanting, he thought, watching her in the growing light as she fastened her belt about her waist and frowned down at the heavy creases of the dress she had worn up about her breasts all night. Her hair was in wild tangles about her head and shoulders. She was barefoot. He did not believe he had ever seen her look more beautiful.

Yes, so enchanting if one allowed oneself to forget. And it was so easy to forget with Joana, to live for the joy of the moment with her. So easy to forget, even though he still bore fresh on his body the bruises that proved just how cruel and ruthless she was in reality.

He belted on his sword, slid her knife inside his belt, and hoisted both his rifle and her musket onto his right shoulder. There was only a little food left. They had better postpone their breakfast in case they did not find anywhere to replenish their supplies during the day.

“Ready?” he asked.

“For anything,” she said, smiling dazzlingly at him. “Lead the way, sir.”

He led the way, wondering when the novelty would wear off and aching muscles and blistered feet would wipe the smile from her face. And when the heat of the day would have her begging him to stop.
And when hunger would make her cross and irritable. But for the moment, all was adventure for her.

He looked back to make sure she was following him closely down the slope. She smiled at him again.

And God, it was hard not to smile back. It was hard not to revel in the feeling of relaxed well-being that the night's two lovings had brought to his body.

B
Y
early evening they had reached another ravine, more shallow than the one where Duarte's band had been camped, less wooded, with the stream narrower and more shallow. But nevertheless it provided welcome shelter from the sweltering hot late-August day. They had passed two remote farms, but had stopped at neither. They were close to Almeida, Captain Blake had said. He wanted to have a look at it before proceeding with his orders.

“There is no point in forcing these poor people into leaving their homes and burning everything they leave behind them,” he had said, “until it is necessary to do so. Perhaps Almeida will hold out until the autumn rains and the French will decide not to advance into Portugal this year after all.”

And so they had trudged onward, not even stopping to replenish their food supplies. But in the heat of the day they were not hungry. Only thirsty. And so the sight of water was welcome indeed.

Joana sank down on her knees beside the stream and drank deeply and gratefully before lifting her head to find that the captain was doing the same thing.

“I thought we would not stop,” she said. “I thought you would force me on. That is partly what today has been all about, is it not, Robert? To see how much endurance I have? To see how loudly I would lament the absence of my carriage and my servants?”

She knew it was the reason. There had been no sign of pursuit all day, and they really should have stopped at those farms, if only to warn the inhabitants of what might be expected of them at any moment. When he sat on the bank, cross-legged, and did not look at her
or smile, she was even more certain. He would love to hear her whine and complain and beg for mercy.

She slipped off her sandals and lowered her feet into the water, wincing with the cold and—yes—with some pain too. She wriggled her toes.

“What are you planning to do at Almeida?” she asked. “Raise the siege single-handed?” She swished her feet in the water and wriggled her toes again. She could see that he was watching them.

“See if Cox and the garrison there are holding out,” he said. “If they are, Joana, and we move off to the west, I will be safe and you will be doomed. Your lover will not dare follow you deeper into Portugal until the fort has fallen.”

“Then I shall have to hope that it falls without delay,” she said.

“I would not count on it.” He turned his head to look at her. “Cox is a stubborn devil and Almeida not an easy fortress to storm.”

She shrugged and looked back at him. “Marcel will come,” she said. “I know he will. No matter what the danger.” And she believed her own words. He would come. He had to come. She would not believe that she had found him at last and ensnared his heart, only to lose him because she had wanted to kill him in Portugal rather than in Salamanca. “Are we going to stay here tonight?”

He looked about with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It seems as good a place as any. There, I think.” He pointed to a group of trees that was denser than any other. “We will be well-hidden and well-sheltered. We will find a more comfortable bed there than last night's.”

She smiled at him. “My bed was very comfortable last night,” she said.

He was not pleased by the new turn their relationship had taken. She could tell that by the way he had walked all day a little ahead of her, saying nothing beyond purely mundane remarks concerning their journey. Nothing personal. No looks that revealed his awareness that they had become lovers the night before.

She had been glad all day long that she was walking a little behind him. For her looks had revealed that awareness. She had watched him as he walked, his long powerful legs and slim hips and waist, his broad back and shoulders, his wavy blond hair curling over his collar, his effortless carrying of two heavy guns as well as his sword. And she had shamelessly undressed him with her eyes and liked what she had seen. And she had deliberately relived his lovemaking and knew, inexperienced as she was, that he was an expert lover and that he knew far more than he had shown her the night before.

She wanted more. She wanted all his expertise. And she wanted soft looks from him and soft words too. But for the time being she would settle for the expertise.

“Are we going to make love again tonight?” she asked him.

He picked up a stone and sent it splashing into the stream. “We had better eat what remains of our food,” he said, “and move our things into the trees.”

“Is that yes or no?” she asked him, smiling. “Robert, may I borrow my knife for a minute?”

“No,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Are you not going to ask why I want it?” She sighed. “Must you assume that I want to carve my initials into your chest?”

“If you have a legitimate need for a knife,” he said, “I will use it for you.”

“Will you?” She looked up at him. “You will be pleased at this, Robert. It will confirm all your suspicions about me and my soft living. I have a blister that needs to be burst. And it hurts like a thousand devils.”

“Show me,” he said, and he stooped down on his haunches beside her.

She lifted one foot out of the water and showed him the large blister on the inside of her heel, just below her ankle, where the strap of her sandal had been rubbing her all day.

“Joana.” He sounded angry rather than sympathetic. “That must have been giving you agonies for hours. I suppose you were too proud to complain.”

“Too stubborn,” she said. “It is just what you expected of me, is it not? I slipped the strap down so that it was no longer rubbing.”

He took her foot in his hand and touched gently the tender skin around the blister. “You should have told me,” he said.

His hand was warm against the chilled flesh of her foot. His head was bent close to her own. He smelled of dust and sweat. He smelled rather wonderful.

“What would you have done?” she asked. “Carried me?”

“We might have stopped at one of the farms,” he said.

“And you could have had a marvelous time scowling and sneering with an I-told-you-so look all over your face,” she said. “No, thank you. A little pain does not quite kill.”

He tested his thumb to the blister. It was sore and definitely needed bursting.

“Lend me the knife,” she said. “If you wish, you may stand ten feet off and point your rifle between my eyes.”

He drew the knife from his belt with his free hand and felt its tip. “You could do real damage with this,” he said.

“That is the whole idea.” She smiled up at him.

“You had better look away,” he said.

She continued to smile at him as he frowned in concentration, pricked the blister, and lowered her foot into the water again. His face was still looking somewhat battered from his week's ordeal, but the bruises succeeded only in making him look even more tough and attractive.

“We will bind it tomorrow morning before continuing on our way,” he said.

“With what?” She laughed lightly. “Oh, but I know the answer. You are going to be unutterably gallant and tear strips from your shirt, aren't you?”

“Actually,” he said, and she knew him quite well enough to know
that he almost grinned, though he caught himself in time, “I was thinking of the hem of your dress.”

“So that it would be shorter and you could brighten your days by staring at my ankles,” she said. “For shame, Robert.”

He reached for his pack and handed her some bread and cheese, both of them rather dry. But after a day's abstinence, the meal tasted marvelously satisfying.

“A glass of wine, sir?” she asked when they had finished eating, pointing to the stream. And she knelt again and lowered her mouth to the water. He stayed where he was and she knew he was watching her. She cupped her hands and washed her face and neck and her arms to above the elbows.

He was moving their packs back among the trees when she finally got to her feet. He returned with a leafy bough to obliterate traces of their presence at the bank of the stream.

He spread one blanket beneath the trees, and they sat down on it, side by side, peering outward to the stream and the opposite sloped bank.

“Why did you do it, Joana?” he asked softly after a few minutes of silence. “How could you betray your mother's people and your husband's?”

“My father's people are the French,” she said. “My father is an ambassador in Vienna. It seems I have to betray one side or the other.”

“You could have been neutral,” he said. “You could have decided to be a typical lady.”

“Typical? Me?” She smiled quickly at him. “I could never be that, Robert. And neutral? It is not in my nature to be neutral.”

“And so,” he said, “you were willing to see your adopted country destroyed and your mother's countrymen driven from the continent.”

“Ah,” she said, “but I still hold to my story that I am one of Arthur's spies, as you are, that I was in Salamanca working for the same cause as you.”

“A strange way you had of doing it,” he said. “If you were on my side, Joana, I would hate to have had you against me.”

“I did not know you would be beaten again,” she said. “I did not think they would dare. You would have beaten off Marcel and two of the soldiers, I do believe. I was glad I had had the forethought to make sure that there were more than just the three there.”

“Thank you,” he said. “And you were on my side?”

She smiled. “Would you have left Salamanca with Duarte and the Spanish partisans if that had not happened?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he said. “I had given my parole.”

She turned her hands palm-up. “I rest my case.”

“I believe you could persuade most people that black is white if you set your mind to it, Joana,” he said. “What about the Lines of Torres Vedras?” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are they real or are they a myth?”

“You know the answer as well as I,” she said. “I do not need to answer your question, Robert.”

“There, you see?” he said. “You will not give me an answer because you fear that it will be the wrong one and that I will know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are a liar.”

“There
is
a shadow of a doubt, then?” she asked. “You would like to believe me, would you not, Robert?”

“I would like to believe that there is no such being as the devil,” he said. “But I know that there is.”

“You would like to believe it,” she said, “because you have made love to me and because you love me just a little, even though you will not admit as much even to yourself. And because you want to make love to me again tonight. You feel disloyal making love to the enemy, don't you?”

“I can see how you have salved your conscience through the
years,” he said. “You have persuaded yourself that sex is love, Joana, that all your sex partners have been lovers. I suppose I am a lover too. I suppose you persuade yourself that you love me—just a little.”

“I told you so once,” she said.

“Yes, I remember it well.” He looked across at her, his expression stony. “And a moment later your thugs were upon me. They would still be amusing themselves with me every day if things had not turned out as they did.”

She reached out to touch his arm, to run her hand down the rough fabric of his sleeve. She could not resist working on his vulnerability—or giving in to her own. And she knew suddenly, as perhaps she had known unconsciously for some time, that she had found in Robert Blake what she had been searching for all her adult life.

But she was given no chance to wallow in the thought. He flinched away from her hand and turned on her, his face fierce, his blue eyes blazing.

“Listen, Joana,” he said, “we may be together for days or even weeks. I have no intention of living with this tension between us all that time. I have no wish to spend every day and every evening debating the question of whether we should or whether we should not, of whether we are going to or whether we are not. Let us have it settled once for all. Are we to be sex partners or are we not? The choice is yours. But let me warn you. If the answer is yes, it will happen, daily and nightly, without any pretense of either seduction or romance. And with no pretense of love or even tenderness. It will happen because we are a man and woman alone together and because we both consent to the physical pleasure to be taken from uniting our bodies.”

“And if the answer is no?” She smiled at him and touched his arm again. She was not afraid of his anger. It would be unleashed in only one way if he lost control. He would never hurt her. She knew that with the instinctive knowledge she seemed to have of him. “Would you be able to live with the daily tension, Robert?”

“There would be none,” he said. “If the answer is no, then there is nothing to cause tension. I will not take what is not freely given.”

“You think we could be together and celibate and feel no tension?” she asked him. “I think you are a liar, Robert. Or else you have no imagination.”