She made a face as she took his arm, and they left the house together. The evening was damp and bitingly cold, but the battered cloak she’d found at a rag shop was mercifully warm. When she had time, she’d refurbish the cloak with braid and brass buttons, but for now, she preferred comfort to style. “Those emerald eyes probably saved my life. My master, Gürkan, liked exotic looks in his harem slaves. He’d not seen eyes like mine before and they intrigued him enough to spare my life.”
Simon flinched as he helped her into the carriage. “It is hard for me to imagine the uncertainty and danger of harem life.”
“I was told that many harems were pleasant places that gave beautiful young girls the chance for a better life.” She settled on her seat and pulled her cloak tight against the chill. “But Gürkan was mad. Evil. He had fits that put him into a killing rage. No one ever left his harem for a better life, until the night of our escape.”
Simon took the reins and set the carriage in motion. “You speak of these things so calmly. Was that how you kept your sanity?”
She shrugged. “Collapsing in a weeping heap would do me no good. Detachment and acceptance of the fact that I might be killed at any time were necessary.”
“You would have made a magnificent soldier,” he said pensively.
“I expect I would have enjoyed that a good deal more than being a harem slave.” She studied his silhouette as they passed through a splash of light from a house. She liked his firm, handsome profile. “But women have few choices.”
“Which is why you are reluctant to put yourself into a man’s control again,” he said as he turned the carriage into a wider street. “I do understand, though I hope to change your mind.”
He was making some progress, but she preferred not to tell him that. “Enough about the past. Tell me about that mad night in Portugal, the men you shared it with, and whom we will dine with tonight.”
“That mad night was in 1809, when the French were invading northern Portugal,” he said. “They had reached Porto, so the retreating Portuguese army destroyed the bridge over the Douro River that separated Porto from Gaia on the opposite side. They wanted to slow the French advance, but in the process they also destroyed the escape route for Portuguese civilians fleeing the French army.”
She frowned as she thought back. “There was a disaster, wasn’t there?”
He nodded in the darkness. “A bridge was improvised by lashing small boats together so they reached from shore to shore. Desperate people were surging across even though it was unsteady and dangerous. Then the bridge broke and the refugees were pitched into the water screaming.” He drew a rough breath. “The current was swift. I was one of many who tried to rescue the victims from the water. It was chaos.”
She shivered at the image of a river full of desperate, screaming people. “I once fell into a stream and was dragged down by my saturated skirts. I would have drowned if a servant hadn’t pulled me out.”
“Many of the refugees were women and children,” Simon said grimly. “The five of us who were captured and sentenced to death were rescuing a group of nuns and schoolgirls. Some English was spoken, and that alerted a French colonel who arrested us, declared we were all English spies, and locked us in the damp cellar of a house where he’d set up his headquarters. The other four men were British. I became very French but the colonel decided I was a royalist spy and I was locked up with the others.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was observing the invasion, as a reconnaissance officer does, but I wasn’t wearing my uniform, so I was fair game.”
“What a difference a uniform makes! Why were the other Britons in such a dangerous place?”
“None of us discussed that, though I later found that our group included another British army officer.” His voice turned wry. “We were a proper scruffy set of rogues. As we waited for dawn and the firing squad, we drank bad brandy provided by a couple of the French guards who thought we shouldn’t go to our deaths sober.”
“How very French!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Though a pity the brandy wasn’t better. What does one speak of on such a night?”
“A major topic was what we’d do to redeem our wicked lives if we escaped.”
She laughed a little. “One may have very saintly aspirations when death is inevitable. Were you really such rogues?”
“I can’t swear to the sins of any of the others, but what man doesn’t have regrets?”
“What man or woman?” she said softly.
“Very true.” After a long silence, he said, “I’ll be curious to learn what the other Rogues Redeemed have done with their survival.”
“Who will be there tonight?”
“Hawkins and his lady, of course. Masterson, who was the other army officer. A fellow who called himself Gordon and who could be called a soldier of fortune. Kirkland said they were bringing wives, so perhaps they’re settling down to quieter lives.”
“You would be the fourth man in the cellar. Who was the fifth? Has he survived the wars?”
“I don’t know. He called himself Chantry, but there was an assumption we weren’t necessarily using our real names. We arranged to send letters to Hatchards bookstore to update each other on our situations, but I haven’t yet had time to call at the store and check for messages.”
“It sounds as if a deep connection formed among you in mere hours,” Suzanne said thoughtfully. “This reunion will be interesting.”
“We have nothing in common other than that one night of shared danger. We worked together to escape and the bond is real, but it won’t necessarily make us friends.” Amusement sounded in his voice. “As you say, it should be interesting.”
