He frowned. `Why doesn’t Joseph stop the treaty?’
`Because his brother will crucify him! They’re all scared of Napoleon. But if you tell Wellington, then no one can blame Joseph.’
`Why don’t you just exchange me?’
She seemed exasperated by his questions. `We can’t. Ducos won’t allow it. He wants to parade you in Paris as proof of Britain’s bad faith. Besides, do you think we’d ever exchange someone like you?’
`But you’ll let me escape.’
`Because then Ducos loses. Because Joseph keeps a bit of Spain and gives me my wagons back!’ Her eyes flicked between his, judging him. `Montbrun will pay you, too.’
`But didn’t you say the treaty would save France?’
`Christ on the true cross! And I’ll be poor, and half of Joseph’s men will be ruined! We need this summer, Richard, that’s all! Besides, it was that bastard Ducos who arranged this, who had me arrested, who almost had you hanged! I want Ducos to be stood against the wall, I want that so badly, Richard, I can feel it in my guts. Next year they can make their god-damned treaty, but not now, not till Pierre Ducos is dead.’
`And you want your money.’
`I want that house.’
`Lark pate and honey?’
`And you can visit me from England. We’ll pay you, Richard. Two thousand guineas, in gold, or paper, or whatever. Just sign the parole and we do the rest.’ She watched him as he stood, as he walked naked to sit in the window. `Well?’
`If I break my parole I have no honour.’
`God spits on honour. Three thousand!’
He turned to her. She was leaning towards him, naked, her face alive with the moment. Her body, that was so beautiful, was lit and shadowed by the candle. He wondered if she felt anything when he embraced her. `You want me to sign away my honour?’
She threw the cigar at him. `For your country. For me! Anyway, it isn’t dishonourable!’
`It isn’t?’
`Montbrun misspelt your name on purpose. It’s not your parole.’
He turned away from her. Beneath him a carriage was coming into the courtyard between the strange piles of ammunition.
She heard it, swore, and began to dress. `Can you hook me up?’
`Just about.’ He fumbled with his bandaged hand at the nape of her neck, then turned her. He looked into her eyes and she reached up and kissed him. `Do it for me, Richard. Finish Ducos and that bastard Inquisitor, and go back to your career.’ She put his hand on her breast and pressed it. `The war will be over in two or three years. Over! Come to me then. Promise me?’
She was more beautiful than a dream, more lovely than the stars in winter, softer than light. She kissed him, her lips warm. `Come to me when it’s all over.’
`Come to you?’
She half smiled. She was heart-breakingly beautiful, and she whispered into his ear and her cheek was warm on his. `I love you, Richard. Do this for me and come to me.’
There was a knock on the door. She shouted at them to wait and dragged a hand over her hair. `Will you come to me?’
`You know I will.’
She gestured at the parole. `Then sign, Richard. For both of us! Sign!’ She smiled at his nakedness, motioned him to stand behind the door, and then was gone into the night.
Sharpe drank steadily, his mood worsening. He was thinking of honour betrayed, of a woman who had promised herself to fulfil his wildest dream, of a treaty to expel Britain’s army from Spain. He had pulled on his overalls and jacket, lit more candles, and still he had not signed the parole.
He decided he was too drunk to sign the parole. Since Helene had left he had finished two bottles of wine.
He went to the table, amazed that he could stand upright, and took two bottles back to the window, reasoning that by carrying two he would save himself another complicated journey across the room when he had finished the first. The reasoning struck him as extremely clever. He was proud of it. He rested his head on the window bars. Somewhere a woman laughed, a low sound of pure pleasure, and he was jealous.