‘El Catolico’s here.’
She nodded. ‘What did you expect?’
He unbuckled his belt, untied the faded red sash, and knew that his shoulder was too stiff, too painful, for him to undress properly. Teresa saw it, pushed back the sheet, and he saw she was already naked. She crossed the floor, helped him, went back to the huge, soft bed with him. Sharpe lay flat and the girl propped herself beside him.
‘What does he want?’
‘Later,’ Sharpe said. ‘Later.’ His right arm was still good and he pulled the girl on top of him, felt her hair fall either side of his face, her hands explore the scars on his back. Her mouth was beside his ear.
‘Can I keep the rifle?’
‘It’s all yours,’ he said. ‘All yours.’ And it was.
CHAPTER 19
Her finger pressed on the scars of the flogging. ‘Who did it?’
‘A man called Morris, and a Sergeant. Hakeswill.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘They lied.’
‘You kill them?’
‘Not yet.’
She nodded slowly. ‘You will?’
‘I will.’ It was not yet dawn, but the sky had the grey luminance that came before first light, and Sharpe wanted to be at the telegraph early. He was reluctant to move, to lose the warm body, but others were stirring in the house and a cockerel, exploding into sound in the courtyard, jerked him upright. He lay back again, taking five more minutes, and pulled Teresa close.
‘Did Hardy want you?’
She smiled, said something in Spanish, and he assumed she was asking if he was jealous.
‘No.’
She wagged her head, seemed to shrug. ‘Yes. He wanted me.’
‘And did you?’
She laughed. ‘No. Joaquim was too close.’
Joaquim, damned Joaquim Jovellanos, El Catolico, Colonel and crook. The girl had told him, when they were lying hot and sweaty in the wide bed, of her father, of El Catolico, of the business of staying alive in the mountains when the enemy is everywhere and there is no law and no government. Her father, she said, was good, but weak.
‘Weak?’ Sharpe had winced as he propped himself on an elbow.
‘He was strong.’ Teresa still had problems with English and she shrugged helplessly.
Sharpe helped her. ‘And El Catolico?’
She smiled, pushed hair away from her eyes. ‘He wants everything. My father’s men, land, money, me. He’s strong.’
Somewhere a door scraped on old hinges, boots crossed a yard, and Sharpe knew it was time to be up.
‘And you?’
Her hand felt his scars. ‘We will fight. Ramon, me, Father. Joaquim only thinks of what happens afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘When there is peace.’
‘And you?’ Her hair had the smell of a woman and his hand rested on the long, muscled waist.
‘I want to kill Frenchmen.’
‘You will.’
‘I know.’
Now, looking at the sudden smile, he wished that she was not going. He could, he decided, be happy with this woman, but he laughed inside as he remembered he had thought the same of Josefina.
‘What are you smiling for?’
‘Nothing.’
He swung his legs out of bed, pulled up his crumpled clothes and put them on the bed. She pulled the jacket towards her, opened the pocket.
‘What’s this?’ A silver locket lay in her hand.
‘A locket.’
She hit him. ‘I know.’ She opened it and, inside, saw the gold-haired girl with the generous mouth. ‘Who’s that?”
‘Jealous?’
She seemed to understand and laughed. ‘Who is she?’
‘Jane Gibbons.’
She imitated him. ‘Jane Gibbons. Who is she? Is she waiting for you?’
‘No. I’ve never met her.’
She looked at the face in the miniature painting. ‘She’s pretty. Never?’
‘Never.’
‘Why do you have it?’
‘I knew her brother.’
‘Ah.’ Friendship made sense to her. ‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘The French?’ She said the word with her customary spite.
‘No.’
She looked exasperated at his answers. ‘Was he a soldier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how did he die?’
Sharpe pulled on the French overalls. ‘I killed him.’
‘You?’
Sharpe paused. ‘No. The Sergeant killed him. I killed the other one.’
‘What other one?’ She sat up, flinched as he pulled back the curtain.
Across the street was a church with ornate stonework and a laddered bell-tower. The soldier in Sharpe automatically understood that the church roof must have a platform for the ladder, a possible firing position.