Scandal's Daughter (12 page)

The rough woollen bedding was cosy, but little protection against the hard ground. Last night Mrs. Miltiades had lent her a pallet. Lying on one half of the blankets, the other folded over her, Cordelia was not at all comfortable. She wriggled and turned, then pushed back the top blankets to reach into the basket for her Turkish trousers to make a pillow for her head.

She froze, her heart standing still, as the tent flap opened and a man stooped to enter.

“Who...?”

“It’s only me.”

James’s voice eased her fright but made her angry. She grabbed the corner of the blankets and covered herself. “You cannot come in here.”

“I’m afraid I have no choice. Our gallant captain says it’s too difficult to keep an eye on me if I’m just another body rolled in blankets, one among many.”

“Oh.”

“He kindly offered to tie me hand and foot if you prefer.”

“Oh!”

“Well?”

“Well...”

“I promise on my honour to do nothing against your wishes.”

“Oh...well...I daresay it would be excessively uncomfortable to be tied up all night,” Cordelia said dubiously.

“Excessively!”

The odious laugh in his voice reminded her of their first meeting, when he had appeared in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. He had not assaulted her then.

“Oh, very well, then, stay.”

Reaching with care for her trousers and rolling them into a pillow, she watched James’s silhouette. He seemed to scoop out a small, shallow dip in the ground before he laid out his bedding on top of it and sat down to remove his boots.

“Why did you do that? Dig, I mean.”

“It’s an old trick, making a hollow for one’s hip-bone when sleeping on the ground. You’d be surprised how much difference it makes.”

“I was just thinking I’m going to be stiff as a board in the morning.”

“Move over a bit and I’ll do the same for you. I imagine a woman needs it even more than a man.”

Cordelia frowned at this uncalled-for reference to the contrast between male and female anatomy. Then she remembered he could not see her frown—and it would be foolish to lie in discomfort all night because of an indecorous remark.

Incautiously she rolled over, exposing herself from head to toe. If the dimly-lit sight of her in her chemise inflamed James’s passions, he gave no sign of it but flipped the other edge of the blankets over her and dug her a hollow.

“Thank you.”

She shuffled back to occupy the dip. It was much more comfortable, but she found herself considerably nearer to James’s bed. And he was taking off his outer clothes.

“T-talking of being stiff,” she said nervously, “this afternoon you said something about stiffening sinews and a tiger...”

“Henry V, drumming up the courage of his troops going into battle. Shakespeare, like you.”

“Like me?”

“Cordelia was one of King Lear’s three daughters, the only one who did not betray him. As you refused to betray me, this afternoon.”

“I am no liar, to let them believe you had abducted me. But you should not have told them your name. They might have let you go.”

“They knew I was a foreigner and I have no papers. They were bound to take me with them to be identified, so I might as well admit who I was. No, there was no chance of escape for me, but there might have been for you if the search had had no connection with your pasha—”

“Not mine! I loathe him!” Cordelia wept.

Somehow she was in his arms. He held her tight, stroking her back, murmuring soothing words.

“Hush, now, hush. You have been so brave, don’t cry. Cordelia...” He hesitated. “Cordelia, I see no way to save you from him, but it might be easier for you if it were not your first time. Instead of giving your virginity to him, would you not rather give that gift to me?”

“Oh James!” She was excruciatingly conscious of his hard, lean body pressed against her, the protective circle of his arms now disquieting, intoxicating. His mouth touched her forehead, kissed the corners of her eyes, licked the salt tears from her cheeks. “James...”

His name was more moan than protest. His lips met hers, firm and soft, sending a burning thrill shivering through her. Almost involuntarily she ran her fingers through his hair, pressed the back of his head, holding him close as if she wanted his tongue to tease her mouth in that agonizing, heavenly way.

His hand under her chemise cupped her breast through the thin gauze of her shift, stroking, playing, gently rolling the nipple between his fingers. His mouth moved down to her throat, dropping little kisses all the way. She moaned again, wantonly, as he pulled up chemise and shift.

“How soft your skin is.” His lips, his tongue were on her breast, kissing, caressing. His hand ran down her side towards her waist. “What’s this?” A laugh in his voice, a tender laugh. “Don’t tell me I have to tackle a corset!”

“Bribes!” Cordelia sat bolt upright, tearing herself from his embrace. “My diamonds. We can bribe—”

Outside, a rattling blast of sound rent the air.

James flung himself on Cordelia, flattening her.

The breath knocked from her body, she squawked, “Don’t!” and struggled to sit up.

“Keep still,” he snapped. “Stay down! That’s gunfire!”

Chapter 12

All thought of love-making had vanished from James’s mind. As Cordelia ceased to wriggle, he was unconscious of her luscious body beneath him—well, nearly. He listened.

The ragged volley of musket shots was answered by screams, groans, yells, running feet, and a return volley. The light on the tent walls dimmed as soldiers kicked out the betraying flames of the camp-fires.

“Bandits?” Cordelia whispered.

“I don’t know.” James frowned in the darkness. “Bandits have little to gain by an attack on armed troops. Merchant caravans are their natural prey.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, coming to a decision, “but this may be our chance. Get dressed, quickly, but for heaven’s sake keep your head down.”

He rolled off her and, still lying down, reached for his clothes. The pandemonium outside continued, the ragged exchange of shots, shouted orders in Turkish, and now cries in Greek, coming closer.

“Freedom or death!”

“St. George for Greece!”

“Kill the infidels!”

“Partisans,” said James. “Fighting for independence. Are you dressed.”

“Nearly. I can’t find my boots.” Cordelia sounded more breathless than frightened. To his surprise, as he felt around for her boots she said, “I thought St. George was England’s patron saint.”

“‘God for Harry, England, and St. George.’ Yes, but he was a Greek, I believe, so I suppose the Greeks have first claim. Here are your boots.” His elbow knocked against hers. “Can you pull them on?”

“I think so. I’ve never dressed lying down before.”

“Undressing is more fun. Keep down. We’ve been lucky so far, not a single shot has hit the tent, but it can’t last.” Rising on hands and knees, he collected such of their provisions as he could find in the dark and rolled them up in his blankets. As fugitives in those barren hills, they would need everything he could carry. If he managed to carry anything at all. If they escaped.

“What are we going to do?” Now she sounded nervous.

“First I shall rashly stick my head out to see what is going on. Hand to hand fighting now, I think.”

The gunfire had given way to grunts, gasps, thuds, and the clash of steel. The Janissaries must have drawn their yataghans, the curved swords they always carried along with their modern rifles.

As James crawled forward to peek under the side of the tent away from the river, a glinting knife-blade stabbed through the cloth above his head. Drawn swiftly downwards, it split the fabric like the skin of a ripe peach, revealing a dark, bulky figure.

“Come,” commanded a rough voice, in Greek. “Quickly.”

James grabbed Cordelia’s arm and came.

They stumbled through the slit. The man took Cordelia’s other arm and between them they half helped, half dragged her away from the tent. All the fighting seemed to be on the far side, but James had no time to look around. By starlight their rescuer urged them onward, up the hill, through bush and briar and the inky shadows of the massive rocks. They came to a clear space where a score of mountain ponies were tethered.

“Wait.”

The Greek disappeared downhill at a run, and a moment later they heard a piercing whistle.

“James, I cannot ride one of those horses. They have no saddles. Don’t let them leave me behind.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, felt her trembling tension. “After the trouble they have gone to to rescue us, I hardly think they’re likely to abandon you. You shall come up with me. It’s easier if you can ride astride, though.”

“I put on my Turkish trousers. I’ll try.”

“Good girl. It’s a pleasure to travel with so practical a companion.” He laughed. “But I’m afraid once again we haven’t a hairbrush or comb between us.”

“Just now I cannot bring myself to care!” she retorted, and he laughed again, full of admiration for her spirit. “Do you really think they attacked the soldiers just to rescue us? How could they know the Turks held us captive?”

“Perhaps they watched from the hills and saw our mounts on leading reins, and the sentries set to guard the tent. As to why they attacked, the way they went about it seems to argue that their chief purpose was to rescue us, but as for why, I cannot imagine. Unlike the Serbs, the Greek uprising against the Ottomans is young yet, poorly organized, and hardly ready to take on troops at random.”

“I’m glad they...Oh!”

All around them, silent figures flitted into the clearing. Below on the hillside James heard shouts in Turkish, but the Greeks made no sound except the groans of a wounded partisan carried between two others. A pony whickered and was swiftly quieted.

A man appeared beside James and Cordelia, leading two ponies. James could not tell if he was the same who had brought them up the hill.

“We lost four,” he said tersely in a low voice. “Hurry, mount.”

“They have good horses,” James whispered as he obeyed. “They will follow.”

The man’s teeth gleamed white in a mirthless grin. “The way we take, if they find it at all, is not fit for good horses. And we loosed their horses before we attacked.” He turned to Cordelia. “Come now, Kyria, we must go.”

“The lady will ride with me. Please help her up. I’ll lead the other pony for when this grows tired from the double load.”

James thought the partisan gave him an odd look, but the light was too dim to be sure. At any rate, without further ado he lifted Cordelia onto the pony’s crupper and hurried off.

One arm around James’s waist, Cordelia hissed, “He has put me on sideways.”

“Damnation! You’d be much safer astride. Can you slide back a bit and get your leg...limb over?”

Removing her arm, she clutched at his clothes on both sides and shuffled back. The pony sidestepped restively. A knee hit James in the kidneys.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry. I’m caught up in my skirt. I’ll have to...”

“Too late. Get yourself straight and hang on.”

The partisans were beginning to file out of the clearing at a trot. A rider came up behind them and waved them on. James suddenly noticed that the shouts of the Janissaries were much nearer—he could only hope they had not yet found their dispersed horses. He kicked the pony’s sides, hoping his youthful skill at bareback riding was not entirely forgotten.

Having Cordelia clinging to him with desperate determination was not a help.

He followed the rider ahead between a rocky outcrop and a huge boulder. For a hundred yards, hooves rang on stony ground. An outburst of shots came from behind, but none whistled near. Then they were among the firs, winding through the trees in black darkness, fallen needles deadening hoofbeats. James let the pony have its head until another outcrop loomed ahead, white stone reflecting just enough starlight for him to see the others veering left.

He followed. Abruptly the trees ended and the night seemed almost light in contrast. Nonetheless, the leaders had slowed to a fast walk.

“James, I’m slipping. There’s a fallen tree I can use as a mounting block. Let me settle properly.”

He listened. The ring of hooves on stone once more came from ahead, but from behind no shots, no shouts. At least temporarily they had lost the soldiers. He turned aside to the tree-trunk.

Cordelia slipped down, hitched up her skirts, and quickly remounted. “Ready.” Her arms encircled his waist and her soft bosom pressed against his back.

He allowed himself a sigh of regret for the interrupted seduction as he urged the pony forward again.

One of the partisans rode over to them and said angrily, “What are you doing? They will be after us soon enough.”

James made no answer but trotted on to catch up with the rest. He soon found out why they had slowed. Their path lay across a steep, treacherous slope littered with loose pebbles. The sure-footed mountain ponies picked their way across it slowly but unhesitating, while the Janissaries’ great troop-horses would have a devil of a time following, even if they found the trail. On this ground, few marks of their passage would remain even in daylight.

“I’m glad it’s dark,” Cordelia murmured, “but I think I shall close my eyes anyway. It is an awfully long way down.”

“As long as you don’t fall asleep.”

“Small chance of that!”

He felt her lay her cheek against his back, and wondered again at the odd mixture of trust and mistrust she showed towards him. Only last night she had once more accused him of being a criminal. This afternoon she had expected him to save his skin and abandon her to the Turkish soldiers. This evening she had cringed when he entered the tent. Yet how sweetly responsive she had lain in his arms, and how still more sweetly she relied on him now to keep her safe in the midst of danger.

It was a long way down. He concentrated on the horseman ahead.

After a while the way turned uphill and they rode through a mountain pass. Before they started down the other side, James stopped to change ponies. Cordelia slid down with a whimper.