Vidal's Honor by Sherry Gloag Page A

Portugal and faced death, he must have seen many atrocities. But this? Honor cast a last glance at the piles of bodies, and failed to hold back her cry of despair when she spotted the children. He’d never condone this kind of behaviour within the English army.
    She saw Juan had his arm round Consuela’s shoulder, and registered her stifled sobs.
    â€œI thought we came this way to avoid the French soldiers,” she said, “but it seems to me we may well run right into them if we continue on this path.”
    Uncertainty perched on her shoulder. Why had Juan deviated from Phillipe’s suggested route? And why bring them this way round the village and not another way?
    â€œIs this the only alternative?” Bringing her mule to a halt, she reached for Vidal’s reins and searched his face. Cavernous grooves travelled across his forehead and cut deep lines between his brows. When he didn’t speak immediately, Honor thought he wasn’t going to answer, and assumed his silence told her all.
    â€œWhat is troubling you?”
    She searched his face at Vidal’s, quiet query.
    â€œI’m not sure anymore.” The truth of her words struck home. Apart from Vidal, she didn’t know who to trust. Where were the men who’d been tracking them so diligently for weeks? And why hadn’t she noticed them when they crossed the plains? Now that they’d reached the wooded foothills of the Pyrenees, their followers could close the gap without being spotted, so where were they? They’d lost any benefit they’d gained from trekking along the river bed when they’d had to stop while she recovered from the scorpion bite, or whatever it was. So, where were they? And more to the point, who were they?
    If they intended harm to their small company of four, why wait so long? Why? The question drummed inside her brain.
    â€œTell me what ails you before we lose contact with Juan.”
    The urgency in Vidal’s voice pulled her out of her troubled thoughts.
    â€œWould that be such a bad thing?” she asked, before she could prevent giving life to her question.
    She looked ahead, to see Juan and Consuela had indeed disappeared and spurred her mule forward. “Would it be so bad?” she challenged.
    â€œYes it would.” Vidal loosened her grip on his reins.
    â€œHe wouldn’t check for survivors.” Honor fought to keep the tears out of her voice when she indicated the path behind them. “And yet he’s more than happy Consuela has joined our party.”
    â€œJealous?” he asked, with a twitch of an eyebrow. “And you just newly widowed.”
    The chill in Vidal’s voice shocked her almost as much as his snide remark. So used to talking her thoughts through with Devlin, it took her a moment to decide perhaps his best friend did not encourage the same kind of open discussion.
    Loneliness descended on her, bending her shoulders and threatening to break her resolve to remain strong in adversity. How she wished Devlin were there to hold her. Then she snorted as she realised, if he’d been here, she’d still be marching with Wellington’s army.
    * * * *
    â€œHow did you come to know about Devlin?”
    Half-an-hour after leaving the clearing behind, the images refused to fade from her memory. Fears, stalking beneath her resolve to abide by Dev’s last wish tugged at her reserves of courage.
    Someone had betrayed her husband hours before his departure for England. Had the same person informed the war office of Phillipe’s whereabouts? How else would Vidal have managed to find his village? No, Juan had guided Vidal there.
    And Juan had deviated from Phillipe’s instructions. Why?
    And why had Juan insinuated himself into the guide party leading them towards France? Or should that be "how"?
    And Phillipe? The image of him standing so close to the earl’s tent that fatal morning flashed into her mind. The shock of it