Her voice was surprisingly soft. “Can you do it?” She smiled at him, the anger going from her face, and for a second Sharpe said nothing. He guessed she was in her early twenties, but she carried her looks with the assur-ance of someone who knew that beauty could be a better inheritance than money or land. She seemed amused at his hesitation, as though she was accustomed to her effect on men, and she raised a mocking eyebrow. “Can you?”
Sharpe nodded and moved to the horse’s rear. He pulled the hoof towards him, holding the pastern firmly, and the mare trembled but stayed still. The shoe would have fallen off within a few paces and he pulled it clear with the slightest tug and let the leg go. He held the shoe out to the girl. “You’re lucky.”
Her eyes were huge and dark. “Why?”
“It can probably be put back on, I don’t know.” He felt clumsy and awkward in her presence, aware of her beauty, suddenly tongue-tied because he wanted her very much. She made no move to take the shoe, so he pushed it under the strap of a bulging saddle bag. “Someone will know how to shoe a horse up there.” He nodded up the road. “There’s a Battalion camped up there.”
“The South Essex?” Her English was good, tinged with a Portuguese accent.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Good. I was following them when the shoe came off.” She looked at her servant and smiled. “Poor Agostino. He’s frightened of horses.”
“And you, ma’am?” Sharpe wanted to keep her talking. It was not unusual for women to follow the army; already Sir Arthur Wellesley’s troops had collected English, Irish, Spanish and Portuguese wives, mistresses, and whores, but it was unusual to see a beautiful girl, well horsed, attended by a servant, and Sharpe’s curiosity was aroused. More than his curiosity. He wanted this girl. It was a reaction to her beauty as much as a reaction to the knowledge that a girl with this kind of looks did not need a shabby Lieutenant without a private fortune. She could take her pick of the rich officers, but that did not stop Sharpe looking at her and desiring her. She seemed to read his thoughts.
“You think I should be afraid?”
Sharpe shrugged, glancing up the road where the Battalion’s smoke drifted into the evening. “Soldiers aren’t delicate, ma’am.”
“Thank you for warning me.” She was mocking him. She looked down at his faded red sash. “Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Sharpe, ma’am.”
“Lieutenant Sharpe.” She smiled at him, spitting him with her beauty. “You must know Christian Gibbons?”
He nodded, knowing the unfairness of life. Money could buy anything: a commission, promotion, a sword fash-ioned to a man’s height and strength, even a woman like this. “I know him.”
“And you don’t like him!” She laughed, knowing that her instinct was right. “But I do.” She clicked her tongue at the horse and gathered up the reins. “I expect we will meet again. I am going with you to Madrid.”
Sharpe did not want her to go. “You’re a long way from home.”
She turned back, mocking him with a smile. “So are you, Lieutenant, so are you.”
She led the limping mare, followed by the mute servant, towards the stand of trees and the cooking fires. Sharpe watched her go, let his eyes see her slim figure beneath the black clothes, and felt the envy and heaviness of his desire. He walked back into the olive grove, as if by leaving the road he could wipe her from his memory and regain the peace of the afternoon. Damn Gibbons and his money, damn all officers who could buy such thoroughbred beauty. He knew it was jealousy, yet he encouraged the sour thoughts, let them swill round his head to try to convince himself that he did not want her, but as he walked between the gnarled trees he felt the horse-shoe nail still held in his right palm. He looked at it, a short, bent nail, and tucked it carefully into his ammunition pouch. He told himself it would come in useful; he needed a nail to jam the mainspring of the rifle when he stripped the lock for cleaning, but better nails were plentiful and he knew he was keeping it because it had been hers. Angrily he fished among the fat cartridges and threw the nail far away.