LITMIR.BIZ

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disgust. “General Tranville’s son.”

      â€œEdwin Tranville,” Gabriel agreed. They’d found him after all.

      â€œThe bloody bastard,” Landon spat.

      Vernon nodded in agreement. “He is drunk.”

      When was Edwin not drunk? Gabe thought.

      Another figure suddenly sprang from the shadows and Landon almost fired his pistol at him.

      The ensign stopped him. “Do not shoot. It is the boy.”

      A boy, not more than twelve years of age, flung himself atop the body of the French soldier.

      â€œPapa!” the boy cried.

      â€œNon, non, non, Claude.” The woman strained against Gabe’s grip. He released her and she ran to her son.

      â€œGood God, they are French.” Not Spanish citizens of Badajoz. A French family trying to escape. What the devil had the Frenchman been thinking, putting his family in such danger? Gabe had no patience for men who took wives and children to war.

      He knelt next to the body and placed his fingers on the man’s throat. “He’s dead.”

      The woman looked up at him. “Mon mari.” Her husband.

      Gabe drew in a sharp breath.

      She was lovely. Even filled with great anguish, she was lovely. Hair as dark as a Spaniard’s, but with skin as fair as the very finest linen. Her eyes, their colour obscured in the dim light, were large and wide with emotion.

      Gabe’s insides twisted in an anger that radiated clear to his fingertips. Had Edwin killed this man in front of his family? Had he tried to kill the boy and rape the woman, as the ensign said? What had the two other men done to her before it had been Edwin’s turn?

      The boy cried, “Papa! Papa! Réveillez!”

      â€œIl est mort, Claude.” Her tone, so low and soft, evoked a memory of Gabe’s own mother soothing one of his brothers or sisters.

      Fists clenched, Gabe rose and strode back to Edwin, ready to kick him into a bloody pulp. He stopped himself.

      Edwin rolled over again and curled into a ball, whimpering.

      Gabe turned his gaze to Ensign Vernon and his voice trembled with anger. “Did Edwin kill him?” He pointed to the dead French soldier.

      The ensign shook his head. “I did not see.”

      â€œWhat will happen to her now?” Gabe spoke more to himself than to the others.

      The woman pressed her son against her bosom, trying to comfort him, while shouts sounded nearby.

      Gabe straightened. “We must get them out of here.” He gestured to his lieutenant. “Landon, take Tranville back to camp. Ensign, I’ll need your help.”

      â€œYou will not turn her in?” Landon looked aghast.

      â€œOf course not,” he snapped. “I’m going to find her a safe place to stay. Maybe a church. Or somewhere.” He peered at Landon and at Ensign Vernon. “We say nothing of this. Agreed?”

      Landon glared at him and pointed to Edwin. “He ought to hang for this.”

      Gabe could not agree more, but over fifteen years in the army had taught him to be practical. He doubted any of the soldiers would face a hanging. Wellington needed them too much. General Tranville would certainly take no chances with his son’s life and reputation. Gabe and Landon needed to protect themselves lest Tranville retaliate.

      More importantly, Gabe needed to protect this woman.

      â€œHe is the general’s son.” His tone brooked no argument. “If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not Edwin’s.” He tilted his head towards the woman. “He may even come after her and the boy.” The captain looked down at the now-insensible man who had caused all this grief. “This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did. He won’t tell.”

      â€œDrink is no excuse—” Landon began. He broke off and, after several seconds, nodded. “Very well. We say nothing.”

      The captain turned to Vernon. “Do I have your word, Ensign?”

      â€œYou do, sir,” the ensign readily agreed.

      Glass shattered nearby and the roof of the burning building collapsed, sending sparks high into the air.

      â€œWe must hurry.” Gabe paused only long enough to extend a handshake to the ensign. “I am Captain Deane. That is Lieutenant Landon.” He turned to the woman and her son. “Is there a church nearby?” His hand flew to his forehead. “Deuce. What is the French word for church?” He tapped his brow. “Église? Is that the word? Église?”

      â€œNon. No church, capitaine,” the woman replied. “My … my maison—my house. Come.”

      â€œYou speak English, madame?”

      â€œOui, un peu—a little.”

      Landon threw Edwin over his shoulder.

      â€œTake care,” Gabe said to him.

      Landon gave a curt nod before trudging off in the direction they had come.

      Gabe turned to the ensign. “I want you to come with me.” He looked over at the Frenchman’s body. “We will have to leave him here.”

      â€œYes, sir.”

      The woman gazed at her husband, her posture taut as if she felt pulled back to his side. Gabe’s heart bled for her. She put an arm around her son, who protested against leaving his father, and Gabe felt their struggle as if it were his own.

      â€œCome,” she finally said, gesturing for them to follow her.

      They made their way through the alley again and down a narrow street.

      â€œMa maison,” she whispered, pointing to a wooden door that stood ajar.

      Gabe signalled them to remain where they were. He entered the house.

      Light from nearby fires illuminated the inside enough for him to see the contents of a home broken and strewn across the floor: legs from a chair, shards of crockery, scattered papers, items that had once formed the essence of everyday life. He searched the large room to be certain no one hid there. He continued into a small kitchen and a bedroom, both thoroughly ransacked.

      He walked back to the front door. “No one is here.”

      The ensign escorted the mother and son through the doorway. The woman’s hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes darted over the shambles of what had once been her life. Her son buried his face into her side. She held him close as she picked her way through the rubble towards the kitchen.

      Determined to make her as comfortable as possible, Gabe strode into the bedroom and pulled the remains of the mattress into the large room, clearing a space for it in the corner. He found a blanket, half-shredded, and carried it to the mattress.

      The woman emerged from the kitchen and handed him water in a chipped cup. The boy gripped her skirt, like a younger, frightened child.

      He smiled his thanks. As he took the cup, his fingertips grazed her hand and his senses flared at the contact. He gulped down the water and handed her back the cup. “The—the Anglais, did they hurt you?” What was the French word? “Violate? Moleste?”

      Her long graceful

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