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mother used to. My nieces and nephews do. My old nurse when she isn’t telling me off for something. My brothers. Male friends.’

      ‘You hug men?’

      That almost-smile again. ‘Well, you know—that embarrassed half-hug men do, then we slap each other on the shoulder and clear our throats and start talking about horses or women.’

      No, she didn’t know. This was obviously part of that unknown world that she understood as little of as any village woman. ‘Your father?’

      ‘Not my father.’ There was no smile this time and no colour in his voice.

      She understood about fathers who wiped the smile from your lips. ‘You have four older brothers, of course. Is there a Sixtus?’

      ‘No, I’m the only one with a number.’ Again that careful avoidance of emotion. ‘The others are Henry, James, Charles and George.’

      It took no great degree of perception to guess that something was very wrong with his family, or, at least with his relationship with his father. What to talk about now? Or perhaps it was best just to let him rest. It was unexpectedly comfortable sitting quietly together, touching. Cleo closed her eyes. What an idiot I was to be suspicious of him. He is a nice, uncomplicated man.

      ‘Tell me about your little troop of soldiers.’

      Her eyes snapped open. ‘What about them?’

      ‘I just wondered what they would be like as travelling companions. Are they amiable or aggressive? Competent, do you think? Well-armed?’

      ‘I have no idea about their efficiency or their arms,’ Cleo said cautiously. ‘I know little about such things. Why?’

      ‘Because I am going to write it all down in a report and send it off to the British by carrier vulture.’ He rolled his eyes at her. ‘For goodness’ sake, Cleo! Because our safety is going to depend to a great extent on that unit, of course. This is hardly going to be a pleasure cruise. I have no weapons. Has your father?’

      ‘A musket and some pistols. A sword in the big trunk, I think. But they have been in there for years.’

      ‘We will get them out and check them over this evening. Is your father a good shot?’

      ‘I imagine he could hit the side of a pyramid if he was close enough, but I have never seen him with a weapon in his hand.’ It was always Mama who had to deal with the chickens for the pot.

      ‘We’ll stick close to your soldiers then.’ Quin pushed against the pillar and got to his feet with an easy grace that looked effortless and which must, given his state of health, have taken some will-power.

      ‘They are not my soldiers.’ She looked at the way he was favouring his left arm. ‘Does that hurt?’

      ‘I’ll live.’ Yes, he hides a great deal under that pleasant face and reasonable manner. ‘You married one of them,’ he added, not to be distracted from his point, it seemed.

      Cleo marched off down the slope to the patient donkey.

      ‘For love.’ Quin’s voice came so close behind her that when she stopped he bumped into the back of her.

      ‘Of course. I told you so.’ She set off briskly towards the camp so the donkey had to trot to catch up. ‘You are a very curious man, Mr Bredon.’

      ‘Strange or inquisitive?’ He had lengthened his stride, too, which would probably tire him again, but she was too flustered to care.

      ‘Both.’

      ‘I only wondered because it seems a strange thing to do, for an Englishwoman. To marry an enemy. But if it was love, I can understand.’

      ‘The French are no enemies of mine. I have never been to England and my grand English relatives do not want me, so why should I care for it? The only good thing I know of it is that it rains a lot there.’ She glanced up at the relentlessly blue, hot sky. ‘And there is no sand. But it rains in France almost as much as in England, Thierry said, and there are no deserts there either. I was looking forward to France,’ she added under her breath.

      But not softly enough, it seemed. ‘It rains a lot in America, too,’ Quin remarked. ‘There are deserts, but those are easy to avoid if you want to.’

      Cleo reached the tent and turned. ‘Is that a proposal, Mr Bredon?’

      She had hoped to disconcert him, embarrass him even. Instead he laughed, a deep, mellow sound. ‘No, and you are teasing me, madam. It was a geographical remark, as you know full well.’

      ‘Daughter!’ Her father appeared around the side of the tent. ‘There you are at last.’ He picked up the bundle of letters from on top of the wilting greenery in the pannier. ‘Why have you not handed these over? And was there nothing for me?’

      ‘The soldiers are leaving, Father.’ Cleo led the donkey into its shelter and lifted off the panniers. Quin took them and began to dump the fodder out, tactfully, she supposed, leaving them to their exchange.

      ‘Leaving? But who will deal with my correspondence?’ Her father was going red in the face as he always did when thwarted.

      ‘No one. We are going, too, because the Mamelukes are coming. Mr Bredon has secured two feluccas and the villagers are coming to help us move our things early tomorrow morning. We must start to pack now.’

      ‘Nonsense. There is work to be done here. They will not trouble us, why should they? We are staying.’ He turned back towards the tent.

      ‘But, Father—’

      Quin ducked out from the donkey shelter. ‘I am leaving tomorrow morning and I am taking Madame Valsac and her belongings with me. Whether you come willingly or attempt to stay is entirely up to you, Sir Philip.’

      Her father swung round. ‘She will do no such thing, she will do as she is told and remain with me.’

      ‘Madame Valsac is a widow and of age, Sir Philip. She does as she pleases. And it does not suit my conscience to leave you here, however pig-headed you are, sir. If you refuse to accompany us, then I am afraid I will have to knock you out and sling you over that unfortunate little donkey.’

      ‘You would assault a man old enough to be your father! After I took you in, saved your life—’

      Cleo slipped away into the tent behind them.

      ‘It was Madame Valsac who took me in and saved my life, Sir Philip. I imagine you would have noticed me when my corpse began to stink, but not before, unless you fell over me,’ Quin said calmly. ‘And I would not leave a man old enough to be my father to the mercies of a war band of belligerent cavalry, armed to the teeth and set on killing. So, what is it to be? Co-operation or force?’

      ‘Damn you, sir—’

      ‘Here is the key to the arms chest, Mr Bredon. I have just locked it.’ Cleo handed him the key and stood beside him, facing her father. ‘It is for your own good, you know.’

      Sir Philip turned and stormed back into the tent.

      ‘I’ll take that to be a yes, then,’ Quin said. ‘You are truly a soldier’s wife, Cleo.’ He tossed the key into the air and caught it again. ‘Let us go and inspect our arsenal.’

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