“Yes, I believe I am,” he agreed with a careless smile, ignoring her caustic tone.
“What is it you want of me?” she demanded. She'd asked the question last night, but matters had become somewhat confused, and there'd been no clear answer.
“ Wellington wishes to speak with you,” he returned.
“Therefore, I am taking you to headquarters in Elvas.”
“As a prisoner?” She gestured to the tethering rope.
“Why should this be necessary for a simple conversation?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“Would La Violette accept an invitation from the commander in chief of His Majesty's Army of the Peninsula?” he retorted in the same tone.
“No,” she said flatly. “I have no time for armies, whatever side they fight on. And the sooner this country is rid of you, the better.” She glared into the red ball of the rising sun. “You have no more business interfering with the affairs of Spain than Napoleon. And you're no better than he is.”
“But, unfortunately, you need us to drive him out,” he said, hanging on to his temper. “And Wellington needs some information from you, which, my dear girl, you are going to give to him. Now, pray make haste.” He gestured impatiently to the rocks.
Tamsyn didn't immediately move. This English colonel was all too complacent, like the rest of the breed. She gazed at the river for a moment, then said, “I would like to bathe. I seem to have been sitting in mud for days.”
“Bathe?” Julian stared at her, taken aback at this abrupt switch of subject. “Don't be absurd. The water will be like ice.”
“But the sun's warm,” she pointed out. “And I've been bathing in these rivers all my life. I only wish to dip myself once in the water, just to wash off the worst of the mud.” She turned pleading eyes on him. “What harm can it do, Colonel?”
He hesitated, words of denial on his lips, but before he could speak them, she plucked at her shirt and ran a hand through her short hair. “I'm filthy. Look at my hands.” She held them out for his inspection. “And my hair's disgusting. I can't bear to be in my own skin! If I must converse with your commander in chief, at least allow me some dignity.”
Her wrinkled nose and disgusted grimace amused him despite his anger at the sweeping contempt of her earlier remarks. She was undeniably filthy. He knew the miseries of it himself; after days of marching through every kind of weather, sleeping on muddy ground and under hedgerows, a man couldn't get the smell of his own body out of his nostrils. His task was to bring her to headquarters at Elvas. But he could grant reasonable requests without jeopardizing that task.
“You'll freeze to death,” he said. “But if you wish to, then you may-for two minutes.”
“My thanks.” She kicked off her shoes and then regarded him expectantly. “May I untie the rope? It'll tighten unbearably if it gets wet.”
“You may,” he agreed. “But if you attempt to run from me, my friend, I'll catch you, and you’ll walk to Elvas tethered to my stirrup.”
Anger flashed across her eyes, turning the deep purple almost black, and then it was quickly banished. She shrugged as if accepting his statement and bent to unfasten the rope. She tugged off her stockings, unfastened her britches, and pushed them off, kicking them to one side. Clad in thin linen drawers and her shirt, she turned to walk down to the river.
Suddenly Julian sensed the current of energy surging through her, just as he had done when he'd held her on his horse yesterday. Purpose and determination were in every taut line of her body. He caught her arm. Just a minute.”
He looked at the river. At the far bank. The water was fairly smooth, but there was a telltale ripple of an undercurrent a few feet from the near shore. It was unlikely she could swim to the other side… unlikely, but not impossible. This was La Violette, after all.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.”
“What! All of them? In front of you?” She looked outraged, and yet somehow he wasn't convinced by this display of maidenly modesty.
“Yes, all of them,” he affirmed evenly. “I doubt even you will take off from the far bank stark naked.”
“What makes you think I could swim that far?” Her eyes widened in innocent inquiry. “It must be a good half mile with a strong undertow. I'm not that good a swimmer.”
“You'll have to forgive me if I choose not to believe that,” he responded as evenly as before. “If you wish to bathe, then you must do so in your skin. Otherwise, perhaps you would do what you have to behind the rocks and we can return to the camp.”
Chagrin darted over her face. A mere fleeting expression, but he saw it and knew he'd been right. La Violette had had some thoughts of escape.
Tamsyn turned away from him and unfastened her shirt. Damn the man for being such a perspicacious bastard. It would have been simplicity itself to swim to the opposite shore, and she wouldn't have had far to go before she found help from some peasant farmer. But tramping the countryside in a soaked shirt and drawers was one thing. In her bare skin was a different matter altogether.
Her mind raced over alternatives, her eyes skimming across the riverbank, looking for anything helpful. The terrain was relatively flat and mossy, and she could run like the wind if she had a decent start. A hundred yards away the ground rose toward a small hill crowned with a tangle of bushes and undergrowth. If she could reach there, she could go to ground like a fox before the hounds. No English soldier would be able to find La Violette on her own territory.
She dropped the shirt to the ground, loosened the string at the waist of her drawers, and kicked them off. St. Simon had been correct in assuming his prisoner was a stranger to modesty unless it suited her purposes to feign it. She was no convent-reared hidalgo maiden and had grown up in the rough-and-tumble of a bandit encampment, where she'd made an early acquaintance with the facts of life. Besides, at this moment she was far too occupied with the glimmer of a plan to give a moment’s thought to the colonel's eyes on her body.
Gathering up her discarded garments, she folded them with care and placed them on the ground close to the rock. It was a tidy little gesture that struck St. Simon as a trifle incongruous. But before he could work out why it should trouble him, she turned to face him, her feet slightly apart, arms akimbo, naked except for an intricately worked silver locket on a slender chain.
“Satisfied, Colonel?”
For a moment he ignored the double-edged question that threw a contemptuous challenge. His eyes ran down the lean, taut body that seemed to thrum with energy. He realized that the illusion of fragility came from her diminutive stature; unclothed, she had the compact, smooth-muscled body of an athlete, limber and arrow straight. His gaze lingered on the small, pointed breasts, the slight flare of her hips, the tangle of pale hair at the base of her belly.
It was the most desirable little body. His breath quickened, and his nostrils flared as he fought down the torrent of arousal. He must be losing his mind, to have put himself in this situation. Why the hell had he even considered allowing her to bathe in the river? But he had and it was too late now.
Emotions under control again, he raised his eyes to her face and saw with a certain grim satisfaction that his scrutiny had discomfited her. There was less certainty in her challenging stance, and her eyes slid away from his. It was some recompense for his own unbidden response.
“Perfectly,” he drawled. “I find myself perfectly satisfied.”
Anger chased discomfiture from her expression, and she took a step forward so that for a second he thought she was going to strike him again. If she did, she would regret it.
Tamsyn read the message in his eyes and in the almost imperceptible readying of his body. The impulse to lash out at him died as rapidly as it had risen as she reminded herself that she was wasting time. Her plan was now fully formed, and engaging in this disturbing battle of wits was both futile and distracting. She turned without a word and walked to the edge of the high bank.