His Counterfeit Condesa (Historical Romance)

‘Don’t look round,’ he murmured. ‘Keep looking at me.’

‘What is it?’

‘Machart is watching us from the doorway yonder.’

‘Why would he?’

‘Perhaps he was hoping to get you alone.’ Falconbridge smiled. ‘I think we should show him how futile his hope is.’

‘How?’

He released his hold on her hand, but only to slide an arm round her waist and draw her against him. His lips brushed hers, tentatively at first, then more assertively. Liquid warmth flooded her body’s core and she swayed against him, her mouth opening beneath his. The kiss grew deeper, more intimate, inflaming her senses, demanding her response. She had no need to pretend now, nor cared any longer who was watching. All that mattered was the two of them and the moonlight and the moment.

The Napoleonic Wars provide the backdrop for this novel, which is set in Spain in 1812 in the Peninsular Campaign. The story takes place in the months between the Siege of Badajoz and the Battle of Salamanca.

I was once lucky enough to live in the Spanish capital for a while. Madrid is a beautiful and vibrant city, and also provided a perfect base for exploring the rest of Iberia. The impressions and experiences from that time have stayed with me ever since, and from them I have drawn much of the local material for this book. Other sources of inspiration came from Sunday morning visits to the Prado Museum. Goya’s paintings—in particular
Dos de Mayo
and
Tres de Mayo
—give a real flavour of the Napoleonic period and the brutal struggle against foreign oppression. The Spanish waged a highly effective guerrilla campaign against the French, and this forms a strand of the subplot in my novel.

However, El Cuchillo is entirely my own invention. Like so many Spanish towns, Ciudad Rodrigo is a wonderful place to visit—rather like taking a journey back in time. It isn’t hard to imagine Wellington and his staff walking through the halls of the Palacio de los Castro, or red-coat soldiers manning the walls of the town. These still bear the marks of the bombardment. The
castillo
no longer has a military function; these days it is a parador, one of the many historic state-owned hotels.

JOANNA FULFORD
is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
    (part of the
Harlequin Presents…
anthology, featuring talented new authors)
THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS
THE LAIRD’S CAPTIVE WIFE

Visit
www.joannafulford.co.uk
for more information

HIS COUNTERFEIT CONDESA

Joanna Fulford

For Catherine Pons, whose friendship has made life so much richer.

Spain 1812

S
abrina surveyed the laden wagon and the damaged wheel and mentally cursed both. Her gaze travelled down the dusty road that snaked through rock and scrub towards the distant sierra. The sun was already past the zenith and they still had many miles to cover before they reached their destination. Now it looked as though they were going to be much later than planned. The wagon driver, a short, wiry individual of indeterminate age, kicked the wheel rim and flung his hat to the ground, muttering an imprecation under his breath. Then he turned towards her, his swarthy face registering an expression that was both doleful and apologetic.

‘Lo siento mucho, Doña Sabrina.’

‘It’s not your fault, Luis. This wagon wasn’t up to much in the first place,’ she replied in Castilian Spanish as fluent as his own.

‘It is no better than firewood on wheels,’ he replied.
‘Or rather, not on wheels any more. Next time I see that donkey, Vasquez, I shall kill him.’

She shook her head. ‘He is an ally, even if he does supply poor transport.’

‘
Dios mio!
With allies such as this, who needs to worry about the French?’

‘Even so.’

Luis sighed. ‘Very well. I shall let him off with just a beating.’

‘No, Luis, tempting as it is.’ She turned back to the wagon. ‘All that matters now is to get this thing fixed so that we can make the rendezvous with Colonel Albermarle.’

Another voice interjected calmly, ‘There’s a wheelwright in the next town. It’s no more than five miles from here.’

She turned towards the speaker, a man of middle years whose black hair showed strands of grey. His tanned face was deeply lined but the eyes were shrewd and alert. Though he was not tall, his stocky frame suggested compact strength.

Sabrina nodded. ‘All right, Ramon. You and I will ride into town and fetch help. Luis and the others can stay here and guard the wagon.’

With that she swung back astride the bay gelding and waited while Ramon remounted his own horse. She nodded to Luis and the three men with him and then turned the horse’s head towards Casa Verde.

* * *

Town was an overstatement she decided when they reached it about an hour later. It was no more than a large sleepy village. Many of the buildings were ramshackle affairs with cracked walls and sagging pantile roofs. Chickens scratched in the dirt and a hog sunned
itself beside an adobe wall. Ragged children played knucklebones before the open door of a house. The narrow street led into a small dusty plaza and Sabrina glanced at her companion.

‘Where can we find the wheelwright?’ she asked.

‘Garcia’s premises are located behind the church.’ Ramon nodded in the direction of the imposing whitewashed building on the far side of the square. ‘Not far now.’

They found the place with no difficulty but discovered the proprietor and two others engaged in removing a wheel from a large supply wagon. Another similar vehicle stood nearby, laden with barrels and sacks. A group of red-coated soldiers stood beside it, laughing and talking among themselves. Sabrina and her companion exchanged glances.

‘I’ll go and speak with Garcia,’ he said.

She took his horse’s reins and watched him cross the intervening space. The wright glanced up from his work. There followed an interchange lasting perhaps two minutes. Then Ramon returned, his expression sombre.

‘The man has just begun a new job,’ he said. ‘He will not be able to help us until tomorrow.’

‘What!’

Ramon gestured to the two supply wagons. ‘He says he must fix those first.’

‘But we’re supposed to rendezvous with Albermarle in Ciudad Rodrigo this evening.’

‘I think that won’t be possible. He says the English soldiers are before us and their commanding officer needs these wagons in a hurry.’

‘Yes, and we need ours in a hurry,’ she replied. ‘I’ll speak to the officer. Perhaps he may relent.’

Ramon grimaced. ‘I doubt it.’

‘We’ll see.’

Sabrina swung down off her horse and thrust both sets of reins into his hands. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked across to the group of soldiers by the waiting wagon. As she drew nearer the two facing her looked up, becoming aware of her presence. Their expressions registered surprise and curiosity. Seeing it their companions glanced round and then the conversation stopped. Sabrina fixed her attention on the man immediately in front of her.

‘I need to speak to your commanding officer.’

‘That would be Major Falconbridge, ma’am.’

‘Can you tell me where he is?’

‘Over there, ma’am,’ the soldier replied, nodding towards a dark-haired figure crouching beside one of the draught horses tethered nearby.

Sabrina thanked him and went across. Though the Major must have heard her approach he didn’t look up, his attention focused on the horse’s near foreleg. Strong lean fingers ran gently down the cannon bone and paused on the fetlock joint.

‘Major Falconbridge?’

‘That’s right.’ The voice was pleasant, the accent unmistakably that of a gentleman.

‘I am Sabrina Huntley. May I have a word with you, sir?’

He did look up then and she found herself staring into a tanned and clean-shaven face. Its rugged lines had nothing of classical beauty about them but it made her catch her breath all the same. Moreover, it was dominated by a pair of cool, grey eyes, whose piercing gaze now swept her critically, moving from the tumbled gold curls confined at her neck by a ribbon, and travelling on by way of jacket and shirt to breeches and boots,
pausing only to linger a moment on the sword at her side and the pistol thrust into her belt. As it did so a gleam of amusement appeared in the grey depths. Then he straightened slowly.

‘I am all attention, Miss Huntley.’

Sabrina’s startled gaze met the top buttons of his uniform jacket and then moved on, giving her a swift impression of a lithe and powerful frame. Her heart skipped a beat and just for a moment her mind went blank to everything, save the man in front of her. With an effort she recollected herself and, adopting a more businesslike manner, explained briefly what had befallen the wagon.

‘I must get to Ciudad Rodrigo tonight. I need the services of the wheelwright at once.’

‘I regret that I cannot help you,’ he replied, ‘for as you see his services are already engaged.’

‘My business is most urgent, Major.’

‘So is mine, ma’am. Were it not so I would have been delighted to oblige you.’

‘Can you not delay your repairs a little?’

‘Indeed I cannot. I must deliver these supplies today or my men won’t eat.’

The tone was even and courteous enough but it held an inflection of steel. She tried another tack.

‘If I do not get help my men and I will be forced to spend the night in the open.’

‘That’s regrettable, of course, but fortunately the weather is clement at this season,’ he replied.

Her jaw tightened. ‘There is also the chance of encountering a French patrol.’

‘There are no French patrols within twenty miles.’ He paused, eyeing the sword and pistol. ‘Even if there
were I think they would be foolhardy to risk an attack on you.’

Her green eyes flashed fire. ‘You are ungallant, sir.’

‘So I’m often told.’

‘Would you leave a lady unaided in such circumstances?’

‘Certainly not, but on your own admission you have several men to help you.’ He paused. ‘May I ask what your wagon is carrying?’

There was an infinitesimal pause. Then, ‘Fruit.’

One dark brow lifted a little. ‘I think your fruit will be safe enough, ma’am.’

Sabrina’s hands clenched at her sides. ‘I do not think you understand the seriousness of the case, Major Falconbridge.’

‘I believe I do.’

‘I must have that wheelwright.’

‘And so you shall—tomorrow.’

‘I have never met with so discourteous and disobliging a man in my life!’

‘You need to get out more.’

Hot colour flooded into her face and dyed her cheeks a most becoming shade of pink. He smiled appreciatively, revealing very white, even teeth. Sabrina fought the urge to hit him.

‘For the last time, Major, will you help me?’

‘For the last time, ma’am, I cannot.’

‘Bruto!’

The only reply was an unrepentant grin. Incensed, Sabrina turned on her heel and marched back to where Ramon waited with the horses. The Spaniard regarded her quizzically.

‘Do I take it that the answer was no?’

‘You do.’

Grabbing the reins, she remounted and turned her horse towards the gate, pausing only to throw Falconbridge one last fulminating glance as she rode on by. As the Major’s grey gaze followed her he laughed softly.

* * *

Some time later the army supply wagons set out. Falconbridge rode alongside, keeping the horse to an easy pace. From time to time he let his gaze range across the hills but saw nothing to cause him any concern. For the rest, his mind was more agreeably occupied with the strange encounter in the wheelwright’s yard. He smiled to himself, albeit rather ruefully. His response to the lady’s plight was ungallant as she had rightly said. No doubt his name was mud now. All the same he wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. It had been worth it just to see the fire in those glorious green eyes. For a while there he had wondered if she would hit him; the desire had been writ large in her face. The image returned with force. He knew he wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.

Her unusual mode of dress had, initially, led him to wonder if she was one of the camp followers, but the cut-glass accent of her spoken English precluded that at once. Her whole manner was indicative of one used to giving orders. He chuckled to himself. Miss Huntley didn’t take kindly to being refused. Under other circumstances he would have behaved better, but he had told the truth when he said he needed to deliver the supplies promptly. She had told him her destination was Ciudad Rodrigo. His smile widened. Without a doubt he’d be meeting her again and soon.

These reflections kept him occupied until the town came into view. He saw the supplies safely delivered and then headed straight to the barracks. He arrived at
the quarters he shared with Major Brudenell to find the former already there, seated at the table. Though he was of Falconbridge’s age the likeness stopped there. Hair the colour of ripe wheat offset a lightly tanned face whose chiselled lines bespoke his noble heritage. He looked up from the paper on which he had been writing, vivid blue eyes warmed by a smile.

‘Ah, Robert. Everything go as planned?’

‘Yes, pretty much.’

‘The men will be pleased. That last barrel of salt pork was so rancid it could have been used as a weapon of terror. If we’d fired it at the French they’d have been in full retreat by now.’

Falconbridge smiled. ‘Maybe we should try it next time.’ He nodded towards the paper on the table. ‘Letter home, Tony?’

‘Yes. I’ve been meaning to do it for the past fortnight and never got the chance. I must get it finished before I go.’

‘Before you go where?’

‘The Sierra de Gredos. Ward has me lined up for a further meeting with El Cuchillo.’

The name of the guerrilla leader was well known. For some time he had been passing information to the English in exchange for guns. Since the intelligence provided had been reliable, General Ward was keen to maintain the relationship.

‘You’ll be gone for a couple of weeks then.’

‘I expect so.’

Falconbridge glanced towards the partially written letter. ‘I sometimes think war is hardest on those left behind.’

‘As a single man you haven’t got that worry.’

‘Nor would I seek it, notwithstanding your most excellent example.’

Brudenell shook his head. ‘I am hardly an excellent example. Indeed it has been so long since I saw my wife that she has likely forgotten what I look like.’

‘That must be hard.’

‘Not in the least. Ours was an arranged marriage with no choice offered to either party. I am quite sure that Claudia enjoys an agreeable lifestyle in London without being overly troubled by my absence.’

The tone was cheerful enough but Falconbridge glimpsed something very like bleakness in those startling blue eyes. Then it was gone. Privately he owned to surprise, for while he knew that his friend was married, he had only ever referred to the matter in the most general terms, until now. The subject was not one that Falconbridge would have chosen to discuss anyway. Even after all this time it was an aspect of the past that he preferred to forget.

It seemed he wasn’t going to be allowed that luxury as Brudenell continued,

‘Have you never been tempted to take the plunge?’

‘I almost did once but the lady cried off.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

Falconbridge achieved a faint shrug. ‘Don’t be. It was undoubtedly a lucky escape. Ever since then I’ve preferred to take my pleasure where I find it.’

‘Very wise.’

‘You condemn matrimony then?’

‘Not so,’ said Brudenell, ‘though I would certainly caution against arranged matches.’

‘Advice I shall heed, I promise you.’

‘Of course, you might meet the right woman. Have you considered that?’