said. His warmth infused her, awoke the brandy and made her bold. He would not agree if she asked outright. He was a gentleman still, and not one to take advantage. He would not agree but she knew, ahead of time, that he would want to, and if she made an overture in just the right way, perhaps he would . . . The thought made her dizzy. What am I thinking? She knew that a gentlewoman did not think this way. But I am a soldier now. They have taken the gentleness away. The thought of it quickened her breathing, tightening her grip on him, infinitely attractive to her for a myriad of reasons. She wanted him because he held her, because of the warmth that boiled off him from his magic. She wanted him because of what he represented: all the King’s power in one man. She wanted him because death could ride in with the tide to fetch her, any day, and she would die without ever having known him. She wanted him because he was Giles Scavian and he looked on her as though he loved her, and that was enough.
Another glass of brandy, perhaps, or a greater understanding of the action the colonel was planning for so soon, and she would have taken his hand and led him off to find a place to lay her down, and perhaps he would have gone along with her. He must feel it too, that closeness that comes only in the shadow of death.
Instead she held him to her, and let his arms take her, and when she finally allowed her grip to loosen, he took her by the shoulders to examine her. He kindled a fire in one palm, with no more than an idle thought, and it showed them each other’s faces for a second. Lit by the flame of the King’s magic, he looked so young, so brave and handsome. There were tears glinting in his eyes.
When the fire died, she closed her eyes, locking in the memory of him. Her hands slipped to either side of his face, and she pulled him forward until their lips met. The shock that went through her was like burning. It made her tremble with fear and wonder.
‘Don’t die,’ she told him, when she could speak. ‘I will never forgive you if you die.’
‘Let them try a dozen times over; I won’t let them keep me from you.’ It was a boy’s callow boasting, but right then it sounded right to her.
It was so hard now, to part from him, to return to her damp and lonely tent. It would have been so easy not to let him go. What was growing between them, though, she did not want to harvest in a single night. It had more life in it than that.
Still she ached for him after he let her go.
15
The camp abounds with the news of Colonel Resnic’s ‘Big Push’. We talk of it jokingly, as though it is a bowel disorder. We are all aware of the truth of it, though. The colonel has lost patience with the enemy, who will not do what he wants. It seems that this is some military version, vast in scale, of a child throwing a tantrum upon the floor.
‘Hoi, Ensign!’
Emily looked up from her bowl of gruel to see a big, bald-headed man approaching her, his uniform jacket opened to the late spring heat.
‘What is it?’ she asked, tacking on, ‘Master Sergeant,’ as soon as she recognized the three crowns on his sleeve. Now she knew him: Sharkey, from Bear Sejant company. She had seen him around the camp before but heard little about him.
He stopped before her, looking her up and down. ‘Morning, Ensign.’ He was a massive-shouldered man, a real bull of a master sergeant. His uncovered, shaven head gleamed in the sun.
‘Good morning, Sergeant. How can I help you?’ She did not like the leery rictus of his grin.
‘“Good” morning? I like that. That’s a proper greeting for you,’ he observed. ‘Though I don’t see what’s so good about it. No bloody morning round here’s ever good, wouldn’t you say, Ensign?’
‘Sergeant, is there something I can do for you?’
His grin widened. ‘It’s true, ain’t it, you can tell just from how you speak. You’re a real nob. Bloody hell.’
She regarded him narrowly.
‘Must be a real come-down for you, ending up here. Must be hell finding you’re inferior to types like me. See, I earned these