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‘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.’
Chapter Six
Cleo was extraordinarily efficient. Quin wondered if she had learned to be in her few months as a soldier’s wife or whether she was naturally organised. Probably the latter, he decided as he helped a grumbling Sir Philip pack his papers into trunks. From what he could see the man’s books and notes comprised most of the Woodwards’ possessions.
There were a few portmanteaux he had glimpsed in their sleeping spaces, enough for a limited wardrobe, but Cleo seemed to possess no ornaments or trinkets, only tools, kitchen implements and her medical kit.
‘We cannot do more this evening,’ she said at last, coming out to find him feeding the donkey to escape her father’s complaints. ‘What is left are the cooking and eating things and tonight’s bedding and of course the tent, but that comes down very easily.’
