His Counterfeit Condesa (Historical Romance) (15 page)

Sabrina and her companions were dragged from the saddle and taken through an archway, along a wide inner corridor and down a flight of stone steps. They found themselves in an underground vault lit by torches. Although it now doubled as a prison, it had originally been intended solely for storage. The dim light revealed barrels and sacks and coils of rope. It was distinctly cool down here, the air musty. Several doors led off the main chamber. Their captors unlocked one of these and she and Falconbridge were shoved into the room beyond; the others taken to the adjoining chamber. Machart paused on the threshold. Then he spoke to his men.

‘Untie their bonds.’

He watched as the order was obeyed. Then he smiled
faintly. ‘You see, I am not so unfeeling as to separate a husband and wife. Enjoy each other’s company while you can.’

With that, he and his men withdrew and the door slammed shut behind them. A key turned in the lock. At the sound, Sabrina shivered inwardly. From the passage outside she heard men’s voices and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Automatically she massaged her bruised wrists. Falconbridge frowned.

‘Are you all right, Sabrina? Have they hurt you?’

‘No, I’m unharmed.’

‘Hardly that,’ he replied, looking round. ‘I’m so sorry that I have brought you to this.’

She shook her head. ‘It isn’t your fault.’

‘Who else should bear the blame but I?’

‘You tried to dissuade me from coming along, but I insisted.’

‘I should have moved heaven and earth to prevent it.’

‘It would have made no difference.’

He returned a wry smile. ‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t, at that.’

She glanced around. The room was bare save for a small stool and a rough wooden cot on which lay a sacking mattress filled with straw. It was covered by a dirty blanket. A bucket in one corner served as a privy. A small, barred window set high in the wall was the only source of light. She guessed it corresponded roughly with ground level outside. The only exit was the door, three inches of iron-studded oak.

‘They did not bring Jacinta,’ she said.

Falconbridge frowned and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. In all the confusion he had not noticed the maid’s absence.

‘She was hit on the head with a rifle butt,’ Sabrina continued. ‘I was trying to ascertain the damage when we were overrun.’

‘It may be just a concussion. If so, she will be recovered soon enough.’

‘I pray she will be able to reach help—a village perhaps—though I don’t know how far that might be.’

‘By my estimation we were about ten miles from Burgohondo, but it’s entirely possible she might find a small farmstead en route.’ He paused. ‘Jacinta strikes me as being resourceful. If anyone could survive it would be she.’

‘She is resourceful, and brave, too.’

‘She is not alone in that,’ he replied. ‘I saw you fight back there.’

‘Not too well. Had it not been for you and Jacinta I’d have been run through.’ She hesitated. ‘I have not thanked you properly for saving my life.’

‘I beg you will not mention it.’

‘How can I not when I owe you so much?’

‘You owe me nothing. Comrades look out for each other.’ The words were accompanied by a faint smile. They were also meant to absolve her of obligation and keep their relationship on a professional footing. He was right to do it, she thought, but her dominant emotion was one of sadness.

She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

For a moment he scrutinised her in silence. ‘You must be exhausted, Sabrina. Why don’t you try to get some rest?’

‘What about you?’

‘I’m not tired yet,’ he lied. ‘Besides, after the time we’ve spent on horseback it will be good to stand for a while.’

She moved across to the pallet, eyeing it with distaste. The mattress smelt musty and she tried not to think about how old it was or how many other occupants the cot might have had. She stretched out and let her aching muscles relax a little. Beneath veiling lashes she saw Falconbridge move away to the door, glancing out through the narrow metal lattice, apparently deep in thought. Once, she might have found this close confinement intimidating, but now his presence was a comfort. She had not been deceived by his earlier protestations; he, too, must be tired yet he had given up the cot to her use. His manner now could not have been more different from the one she had seen at first. It revealed a gentleness that she would never have suspected then.

Unbidden, Machart’s face returned and with it, his words.
Enjoy each other’s company while you can.
She shivered, trying not to think of the implication behind that, or what the morrow might bring. Now more than ever she was glad that Jacinta was free, and Ramon, too. At least the plans were safe and well out of Machart’s grasp, and at the end of it all her father would be delivered from imprisonment. Not a total failure then, she thought.

Falconbridge remained where he was for some time, trying to order his thoughts. He was under no illusions about what lay ahead for him and his men if Machart discovered the truth. Spies were shot. It was a risk one took and while he might regret that matters had not turned out better, he could not be so philosophical where Sabrina was concerned. He could try to appeal to his captor’s sense of honour and ask that she be set free, but suspected that Machart’s notion of honour was not the same as his own. He could plead her youth and innocence if it would do any good.

He glanced at the cot. She lay quite still, eyes closed, her breathing soft and regular. She had never once reproached him for their predicament or shown any fear. His admiration and his regard had grown proportionately. She was indeed the rarest of women. He would have liked to know her better; to court her as a young woman should be courted. It was too late for that now, but he would no longer try to deny the depth of feeling she inspired in him; a feeling he had never expected to experience again.

He sighed and crossed quietly to the sleeping figure. Reaching for the blanket, he opened it out and laid it over her. Although it was only a meagre covering, it was better than nothing, for the air was cool down here. Then he sat down on the stool and watched her sleep. Her face looked very peaceful, the expression untroubled as though she had not a care in the world. He knew that face so well now, every line and curve. Its beauty haunted his dreams. Clarissa had been beautiful, but her beauty was of a different kind. Sabrina’s owed nothing to artifice of any sort. She would be lovely when she was fifty—if she lived so long. His jaw tightened. If by some miracle they got out of this with a whole skin he would make it his mission to ensure nothing harmed her again.

* * *

At some point he must have dozed because he came to with a start. His neck and limbs felt stiff. It was darker now and the only light a faint ruddy glow through the lattice from the torch-lit corridor outside. He got to his feet and straightened slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. A glance at the bed revealed that Sabrina was sleeping still, though more restlessly now, huddled beneath the thin blanket. He reached out and touched
her hand lightly. The skin was cold. He saw her shiver, and roll onto her side, drawing the cover closer. As he saw it, he knew there was one useful service he could perform.

He lay down beside her and curled his body protectively around hers, holding her close, sharing his warmth. She stirred a little but did not wake. He dropped a kiss on her hair and closed his eyes, trying not to think that this might be all they would ever have. However, as the shivering stopped and her warmth returned, the thought persisted. He would have liked to seize the moment and explore in intimate detail every curve of the body pressed so close to his; to know her in every sense of the word. There was a spark; it would not take much to fan it to a flame. If he did, would she perhaps surrender in the name of some brief, dubious comfort? He sighed. Even if honour had not forbidden it, he cared too much ever to take such blatant advantage.

He slept soon after, weary after the exertions of the day, and woke in the early dawn. Grey light was filtering through the bars in the high window. He glanced at his companion but she was still dead to the world. He smiled faintly. Unwilling to wake her yet, he drew the coverlet a little higher and remained where he was. In truth he did not want this brief intimacy to end. Despite the primitive surroundings it felt good to lie here quietly thus, to hold her in his arms again.

* * *

She began to rouse a little later, surfacing from deep sleep to a comfortable doze, and turned instinctively towards the source of the warmth. He gently kissed her parted lips. She smiled and her mouth yielded to his. The kiss grew deep and lingering. With a supreme and
heart-thumping effort of will he drew back. Sabrina opened her eyes and looked into his face.

He smiled. ‘Good morning.’

She stretched lazily and returned the greeting.

‘I won’t ask if you slept well for I know that you did,’ he continued.

She was suddenly very still and he saw the green eyes widen as the nature of their situation became truly apparent. ‘Robert! What…?’

‘Have no fear. I merely wanted to keep you warm.’

‘Keep me warm?’

‘You were shivering last night so I took the liberty of sharing some body heat.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I was tired, too, and there is but one bed.’

‘You mean that you…that we…you were here all night?’

‘That’s right.’

She knew then that she had not dreamed his kiss. The realisation sent a deeper warmth to the core of her being. This sudden enforced intimacy should have been shocking and repellent but it wasn’t. Instead it felt comforting; somehow it felt right and good. It wasn’t only that either: his presence took the edge off her fear, rather than adding to it.

Misinterpreting her silence he added, ‘It was about shared bodily warmth, Sabrina, nothing more.’

Hearing the gentleness in his voice she felt a lump form in her throat. If he were dishonourable he could have taken full advantage of the situation. He was bigger and stronger and even if she had fought, he’d have overpowered her without undue trouble, secure in the knowledge that even if she had screamed for help no one would have come to her aid.

‘I know,’ she replied.

It wasn’t what he had been expecting. ‘Then you do not suspect a more sinister motive?’

‘No.’

She made to sit up but his arm checked her. ‘Stay awhile. It’s early yet.’

She lay quite still, heart thumping, every fibre of her body aware of him. Feeling the tension in her stillness he regarded her quizzically.

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Not so. Will you not tell me?’

How to tell him it was not him she feared but her own desires? If he only knew how close to the surface they lay…

‘Sabrina?’

Suddenly the handsome face was closer to her own, his gaze searching. His lips were dangerously close now. If he kissed her she would not be able to help herself and he would take it as an invitation. The thought of what would inevitably follow turned her loins to fire. How easy it would be to surrender, to give in and let desire take its course. And if she did, what then? If they ever got out of this alive, how would he regard her after? In his eyes, she would be no better than a whore. She could hear the echo of Denton’s voice:
Come…you know you want it. We have all afternoon…make the most of it.
Desire was replaced by flooding shame. There could only be one end to surrender now and she knew full well what it meant. Experience was the best teacher. The thought of Robert Falconbridge regarding her in those terms was unbearable. To hide her confusion she turned her head aside. Mistaking the reason for it, he drew back a little.

‘It’s all right, my dear. You don’t have to say anything.’
He stroked the hair off her face. ‘Go back to sleep for a while.’

She turned onto her side and felt his body curve round hers once more. Closing her eyes, she let herself relax, pushing aside all thoughts of the future, content just to be in the moment. And so he held her while she drowsed and let his arms provide at least the illusion of security.

* * *

Some time later they were roused by the sound of voices and heavy footfalls in the passageway without. Falconbridge was on his feet in an instant, listening intently. Sabrina came to stand beside him, her face pale.

‘They have come for us.’

‘Come for me,’ he replied.

‘Oh, Robert, I’m so afraid.’

He squeezed her arm. ‘If you are questioned, my dear, you must stick to your story.’

She nodded. ‘I will.’

‘If Machart finds the slightest discrepancy in what we say he will exploit it. For all our sakes we must continue to sing from the same hymn sheet.’

‘I understand.’

The footsteps stopped outside the door and a key turned in the lock. The door swung open to reveal four French soldiers. Two of them seized hold of Falconbridge.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

They made no answer save to bind his wrists.

Sabrina started forwards. ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking him?’

The questions still elicited no response. They merely hustled their prisoner from the room and locked the door
behind them. Sabrina rushed to the lattice and peered out, craning her neck to watch the retreating figures until they disappeared from view. Then, weak-kneed, she leaned against the wood and prayed quietly.

* * *

Falconbridge had known what to expect, but the pain still took him by surprise. Wrists bound, he crouched on the stone floor, gasping, waiting for the next kick from the booted feet in his line of vision. Every breath brought sharp protest from his bruised ribs. Blood trickled from the cut on his lip. His face throbbed from repeated blows. Rough hands hauled him to his feet so he could see his interrogator.

‘I’ll ask you again. Who are you?’ Machart’s voice reached him through the haze.

‘I’ve already told you.’ He gasped as a fist connected with his solar plexus.

‘And I told you, I never forget a face. You were at Arroyo de Molinos.’

Falconbridge gritted his teeth. ‘Someone who looked like me perhaps.’