Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy by Bernard Cornwell Page B

have to wait until the siege was done, or the child better, and suddenly, like a dark cloud, she wondered what might happen if Sharpe died in the siege. She shrugged. She would tell everyone that he had married her before the siege, and no one would be any the wiser.
    Hakeswill waited till her hands were full, bridling the horse, and then he rolled over the partition, the bayonet bright in his hand, and grabbed her hair and pulled her down with his lumbering weight. She lashed at him, hopelessly falling, and then he had the needle-point of the slim bayonet at her throat and was kneeling at her head. ‘Hello, missy.’ She said nothing. She was flat on her back, beside the horse, and his face was upside down above her. Hakeswill licked his lips. ‘Portuguese, are we?’
    The Sergeant laughed. This was a gift from the gods, a present on his first day with his new Company. He kept the bayonet at her throat and edged his way round so he could see her properly. The horse stirred, but he was not afraid of horses, and then his knees were beside her waist and he laughed aloud. This one was beautiful, even more beautiful than she had looked through the gap in the stalls. This one he would remember for ever. ‘Speak English?’ The girl said nothing. He pressed with the bayonet, the slightest fraction, not breaking the skin. ‘D’you speak English, missy?’
    Probably not, which did not matter much, because there was no chance that she would live to tell any tales, in any language. The provosts would hang a man for rape so the girl would have to die, unless she liked him, of course, which he conceded was not likely. It was not impossible. There had been that bitch in the Fever Islands, the blind girl, but there was no sign that this little beauty was exactly welcoming his attentions.
    She did not seem frightened either, which was puzzling and distressing. He expected them to scream, they usually did, but she was watching him calmly with big, dark, long-lashed eyes. The scream might come later, but he was ready for it. In a moment he would hold her throat and move the bayonet into her mouth. He would force the blade down till she was on the point of gagging, so all she could see was the seventeen inches of edged metal protruding from her mouth, gripped in his fist and, in that position, Hakeswill knew, they neither moved, nor screamed, and it was so easy to kill them at the end with one brief, convulsive plunge. Her body could be pushed under straw at the back of the stable and, even if she was found, no one would know it was him. He cackled. ‘Obadiah Hakeswill, missy, at your service.’
    She smiled at him, transfixing, unexpected. ‘Obber-dyer?’
    He paused. He had been about to transfer the bayonet. He was suspicious, but he nodded. ‘Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill, missy, and in a hurry, if you don’t mind.’
    Her eyes, large already, widened as if impressed. ‘Sarj-ent? Si ?’ She smiled again. ‘Sarj-ent Obber-dyer Hag-swill? Si ?’ She caressed the words, lingered on them.
    Hakeswill was puzzled. It was dark enough in the stable, to be sure, but not so dark that she could not see his face. Yet she seemed to like him. It was not impossible, he supposed, but even if she did like him that was no reason to linger. Reason, indeed, to make haste. ‘That’s right, dearie, a Sergeant. Mucha Importante.’ He was short of room, the damned horse was too close, but then the girl smiled again and patted the straw on her other side. ‘ Importante ?’
    He grinned at her, glad she was impressed, and eased the bayonet back a trifle. ‘Move over, then.’
    She nodded, smiled again, and her hands went to the back of her neck, and she licked her lips, and Hakeswill’s eyes moved to watch her draw up her long, slim, trousered legs, and he never saw the blade that she took from the sheath that hung at the top of her spine. He was fumbling with his buttons when the knife sliced at his face, sprang blood, and the knees kept coming and