“If you stay here,” Christopher told Kate, “you’ll be raped.”
“I’ve been raped,” she wept, “night after night!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Kate!” Christopher, dressed in civilian clothes, was standing by the carriage’s open door with rain dripping from the point of his cocked hat. “I’m not leaving you here.” He reached in, took her by the wrist and, despite her screams and struggles, hauled her from the carriage. “Walk, damn you!” he snarled, and dragged her across the verge and up the slope. She had only been out of the carriage a few seconds and already her blue hussar uniform, which Christopher had insisted she wore, was soaked through. “This isn’t the end,” Christopher told her, his grip painful on her thin wrist. “The reinforcements never arrived, that’s all! But we’ll be back.”
Kate, despite her misery, was struck by the “we.” Did he mean the two of them? Or did he mean the French? “I want to go home,” she cried.
“Stop being tedious,” Christopher snapped, “and keep walking!” He pulled her on. Her new leather-soled boots slipped on the path. “The French are going to win this war,” Christopher insisted. He was no longer certain of that, but when he weighed the balances of power in Europe he managed to convince himself that it was true.
“I want to go back to Oporto!” Kate sobbed.
“We can’t!”
“Why not?” She tried to pull away from him and though she could not loosen his grip she did manage to bring him to a halt. “Why not?” she asked.
“We just can’t,” he said, “now come on!” He tugged her into motion again, unwilling to tell her that he could not go back to Oporto because that damned man Sharpe was alive. Good Christ in his heaven, but the bastard was only an over-age lieutenant and one, he had now learned, who was up from the ranks, but Sharpe knew too much that was damning to Christopher and so the Colonel would need to find a safe haven from where, by the discreet methods that he knew so well, he could send a letter to London. Then, in quiet, he could judge from the reply whether London believed his story that he had been forced to demonstrate an allegiance to the French in order to engineer a mutiny that would have freed Portugal, and that story sounded convincing to him, except that Portugal was being freed anyway. But all was not lost. It would be his word against Sharpe’s, and Christopher, whatever else he might be, was a gentleman and Sharpe was most decidedly not. There would be the delicate problem, of course, of what to do with Kate if he was called back to London, but he could probably deny that the marriage had ever taken place. He would put reports of it down to Kate’s vapors. Women were given to vapors, it was notorious. What had Shakespeare said? “Frailty, thy name is woman.” So he would truthfully claim that the gabbled service in Vila Real de Zedes’s small church was not a proper marriage and say that he had undergone it solely to save Kate’s blushes. It was a gamble, he knew, but he had played cards long enough to know that sometimes the most outrageous gambles paid the biggest winnings.
And if the gamble failed, and if he could not salvage his London career then it probably would not matter, for he clung to the belief that the French would surely win in the end and he would be back in Oporto where, for lack of any other knowledge, the lawyers must account him as Kate’s husband and he would be wealthy. Kate would come to terms with it. She would recover when she was restored, as she would be, to comfort and home. Thus far, it was true, she had been unhappy, her joy at the marriage turning to horror in the bedroom, but young mares often rebelled against the bridle yet after a whipping or two became docile and obedient. And Christopher wished that outcome for Kate because her beauty still thrilled him. He dragged her on to where Williamson, now Christopher’s servant, held his horse. “Get on its back,” he ordered Kate.