‘I didn’t hear your words, my dear?’ Sir Augustus, unable to contain his anger, leaned forward.
She smiled at him prettily. ‘I was counting the potatoes on Major Sharpe’s plate. I think he is very greedy.’
‘A man needs his strength.’ Ducos said, his eyes going back and forth between Sharpe and Josefina.
‘Which is why you eat so little, Major?’ She smiled at Ducos and it was true that the small, plain-dressed man picked fussily at his food and ate little. She leaned back towards Sharpe and put her fork over his plate. ‘One, two, three, four, five, you’ve eaten part of that one, six.’ Her knee and thigh were hard against him. She lowered her voice. ‘He sleeps like the dead. Three o’clock?’
`Qui vive?’ The shout was from outside the inn, the French challenge.
Josefina’s fork was in her left hand, her right hand was beneath the table, its fingers running up the junction of green cloth and leather of his French overalls. ‘Eight, nine. Ten potatoes, Major? Yes?’
‘Three and a half would be better.’ He said. He could smell her hair. She was hovering over his plate with the fork, deciding which potato to prong. She picked one, leaned away from him, and held the potato to his mouth. ‘For your strength, Major.’
He opened his mouth, the fork came forward, and then the challenge was repeated, the door was hammered, opened, and the thick curtain was swept aside letting in a flurry of freezing air.
The diners stopped, forks halfway to their mouths, Josefina’s fork an inch from Sharpe’s lips, and there in the doorway stood Patrick Harper, grinning, and beside him, much smaller, her eyes dark, her hair black inside her hood, was Teresa. Sharpe’s wife.
‘Hello, husband.’
CHAPTER 17
She would not enter the inn, not Teresa, not while French officers were there. She hated the French with all the passion of her passionate soul. They had raped and killed her mother, she repaid them by killing as many as she could find and ambush in the border hills. Sharpe walked with her down the village street, towards the Convent, and she looked up at him. ‘Forgotten how to eat, Richard?’
‘She was only being playful.’
‘Playful!’ She laughed at him. The light of the straw torches showed her thin, strong face. There was none of Josefina’s softness here, this woman had the face of a hawk; a beautiful hawk, but still a killer, a hunter, a creature of supple strength and small pity. The face was proud, the face of old Spain, mellowed only by lustrous, large eyes. The mother of his child. ‘That’s the whore-bitch Josefina, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you still wear her ring, yes?’
Sharpe stopped, surprised. He had forgotten it, and Josefina had not mentioned it, but he did still wear the silver ring engraved with an Eagle that Josefina had bought for him before the battle of Talavera and before he had taken the eagle standard from the French. He looked at the ring, then up to Teresa’s eyes. ‘Jealous?’
‘Richard.’ She smiled. ‘You wear the ring for the eagle, not her, I know that. Still, I suspect you think she is very beautiful, yes?’
‘Too fat.’
‘Too fat! You think anyone’s too fat who’s wider than a ramrod.’ She was facing him and she punched him lightly on the arm. ‘One day I’m going to become fat, very fat, and I will see if you truly love me.’
‘I love you.’
‘And you think that forgives all.’ She smiled at him, stood on tiptoe, and he kissed her, aware of the interested gaze of a dozen French sentries as well as Harper’s looming figure twenty yards away. She frowned. ‘Is that how you love me?’
He kissed her again, holding her this time, and she slid her face against his cheek and whispered in his ear, and then she pulled away to see the expression on his face.
‘Truly?’ He asked.
‘Yes. This way.’ She took him by the hand and walked with him beyond the light of the torches, out into the open field. The mist was still thin, the stars still showing hazed overhead, but the clouds had spread further south and promised foul weather. She stopped him when they were well beyond the earshot of any Frenchman in the village.