Free Beyond the Sunrise by Mary Balogh Page B

eyes that she had seen there two nights before at the ball.
    But as she looked at him, she had the feeling again of having met him before. Except that it was not that, she realized with a jolt. It was that he reminded her . . . No, it must be the blond hair, the blue eyes, something else indefinable, because really he was nothing like him at all. But perhaps there would have been a real resemblance if the other had lived, if he had not died before his eighteenth birthday.
    â€œOnly for that reason?” she asked him. “Not because I invited you to come and because this is
the
social occasion to be attending this evening? There are many disappointed British and Portuguese officers who did not receive an invitation.”
    He looked back at her silently, his expression unsoftened.
    â€œWhat may I offer you to drink, Captain?” she asked, crossing the room to a sideboard.
    â€œNothing, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you,” he added almost as an afterthought.
    â€œLemonade?” Her eyes mocked him.
    â€œNo, thank you, ma’am.”
    She walked away from the sideboard. She poured nothing for herself.
    â€œAs early as you wish, Captain,” she said. “Dawn?”
    â€œIt will not be too early for you?” he asked.
    She smiled fleetingly. “It will probably be late,” she said. “I shalldoubtless leave directly from my party. Anything after that, after I had taken some rest, would doubtless be too late. Dawn will be suitable, Captain.”
    He bowed and looked as if he would take his leave if he could just find a way of doing so gracefully. But she was not ready to dismiss him yet.
    â€œYou have a knowledge of many languages, Captain?” she said.
    He looked surprised. “I like to be able to communicate with the people about me when in a foreign country,” he said. “How did you know that?”
    â€œI make a practice, Captain,” she said, “of knowing something of my servants . . . and my escorts. Your knowledge of Indian languages enabled you to do some spying work for the British government in India, and you did some here too two years ago when Lord Wellington was first in Portugal. It must be a fascinating life.”
    He looked uncomfortable. “My place is with my company of the Ninety-fifth Rifles, ma’am,” he said. “Leading them against the enemy skirmishers—the
tirailleurs
and
voltigeurs
—is a fascinating life.”
    â€œAh, yes,” she said, “you are the simple soldier at heart, it seems. And you were one of those riflemen, Captain, before you donned a sword.” She looked down at the curved cavalry saber at his side and was somehow not surprised to note that it gleamed and exhibited none of the shabbiness of his uniform.
    â€œAnd still am, ma’am,” he said. “I still carry a rifle into battle as well as my sword.”
    â€œAh,” she said, “so you still like slumming, Captain.”
    She watched his lips tighten and his already firm jawline tense.
    â€œAnd you feel capable of protecting me during the long journey from here to Viseu?” she asked.
    â€œThere is no danger, ma’am.” Was that contempt in his voice? she wondered. “The French are still across the border in Spain. All the forces of England and Portugal—the best troops in Europe—will be between you and danger.”
    â€œNot to mention the Ordenanza,” she said.
    â€œThe Portuguese militia?” he said. “Yes, they do a good job, ma’am, of harassing the French and keeping them back, as do the Spanish
guerrilleros
. You will be quite safe. And I shall protect you from any incidental dangers of the road.”
    â€œI am sure you will, Captain,” she said. She smiled inwardly. Clearly the man was less than delighted by an assignment that a dozen or more officers of her acquaintance would have killed for. “How could I not feel safe in