A/N: This is for those of you who are still reading and enjoying. Shouty Boyd in a really bad mood and a secretive woman who plays him...like a fiddle. Enjoy!
Please take note that the rating is rising.
June 9th, later
As predicted, for all soldiers who were part of Captain Boyd's squadron, the day went from original form downhill. Their commander's mood was exceptionally unpleasant and in turn, each of his men suffered the consequences.
Though the Colonels had set up horse drill only and finished those by mid-day, Boyd's squadron was still at it as afternoon teatime approached. The horses were tired, the men were tired, but the Captain showed no sign of stopping any time soon.
His commands came sharp as a whip across the training ground, his face as clouded as if the battle was already afoot and they were losing. Almost two third of the squadron were already settled with punishment of any sort and it was only luck that Captain Boyd had not yet ordered the caning of his entire squadron on grounds of breathing.
His mood was sour at best and the squadron thought it advisable to just duck and do what he wished.
They went through the horse drill several times, until the horses were too tired and had to be rested. Fighting practice followed for several hours, until barely a man could still hold his weapons aloft. Now they were on basic drill, basic recruit's exercises that some of the men had gone through as long ago as Boyd himself.
They all grumbled, but none dared to show it, lest their commander thought it suitable they do it all night. Though not necessarily an unfair man, Boyd was a bastard at times and with the bee he had in his bonnet today, none of them was safe.
Even Jordan and Wharton, normally enjoying a lot more leeway than anybody, had already been shouted at, though they had escaped corporeal punishment and arrest so far.
It was Col. Christie who finally and personally ordered the exercises to be stopped for the day as they approached dinner time. He shook his head worriedly as the men dispersed exhaustedly. Most of them were too tired to even speak amongst themselves and complain, however quietly.
Boyd's face was still tense, fraught with annoyance and borderline aggression. Sorely tempted, Christie had refrained from asking, did so now. He had seen Boyd arrive, rather dishevelled, in the morning; had been the one to authorize Jordan and Wharton to go look for him, after the Captain had not returned from his nightly scouting.
Something had gone wrong, but Boyd showed no injury and the camp was not swarming with Frenchmen, so it could not exactly have been the scouting that went wrong.
Christie knew the other man well, ever since their beginnings in the army over twenty years ago, and though he would never voice it, Christie knew that it had to be something personal that had Boyd in such a mood.
Something had gotten under the other man's skin.
And under normal circumstances, he could venture a good guess what it was.
They were not under normal circumstances, though.
With a frown, he watched Boyd retreat to his tent, motioned for both Wharton and Jordan to follow and report back later on.
The two men did as they were told, but there was a certain reluctance to their movements. The mood their superior was in was not a new one and both of them had seen him beat grown men almost to death in such a mood. It was one thing at the height of battle, but back then...
It had been the pain over his dead son breaking through then, driving the older man almost insane. He had never spoken about it and it was only guess work on their part, but...
In addition, Boyd's disposition had worsened throughout the day. In fact, it had been like a cycle - a short space of him smiling with what could only be called happiness, followed by much longer times of absolute fury that grew in intensity every time.
Carefully, both men entered the Captain's tent, after giving him a few minutes to calm down. It surprised neither to see that the tent was in complete disarray, things having been thrown and kicked across the small expanse.
In the midst of it all, Boyd stood, his body ramrod straight, his hands in tight fists. He looked as if it was hard work for him to even show a resemblance of calm and the other two men almost wished they could turn around and leave.
"I won't kill you," the Captain said finally, surprisingly calmly.
The other two grimaced, but it was Wharton who finally muttered, "Good thing, you still need us. Sir."
There was a long pause, too long it seemed to Jordan who began to fidget slightly.
Then, surprising them all, Boyd chuckled lightly.
"I do," he acknowledged as he turned. There was still something in his expression and the tension in his body had not lessened, but at least he was calmer now.
"Listen," he began, righting his trunk and a footstool and waving the two men to sit down. "Our man has much wider spread operations than we would like."
"The lad said the truth then? Five places?" Jordan asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice as well.
Boyd shrugged. "I canot say. I only saw one. But the boy's fear is well founded."
"They shoot on sight," Wharton quoted.
"They certainly do not wait to ask questions first. I was still as good as 50 yards away from the place, but they had set up guards. I could make my escape, but I am not certain how many noticed me before I noticed them."
"Why?" It was Wharton who asked. Boyd was a lot of things, but he would not be that careless, especially on a scouting mission.
Their superior remained silent, the tension in his expression magnifying again. His companions saw it, but wisely did not comment. An idea about the reason for Boyd's moroseness was beginning to manifest in their minds, corresponding with the scratches the older man had been quick to cover up.
"Jean le Pilleur is not our only...impediment," he finally said. "I also met a French patrol."
"This close to the border?" Jordan quickly interrupted, though it was clear that he regretted it instantly.
"I am very sorry, Cornet Jordan, that we are at war with the Empire of France, gathering our troops excessively close to their border. I would expect that they are interested in scouting and protecting it," Boyd replied, sarcasm dripping heavily from his words.
Jordan had the good grace to blush.
"What about the place then? I take it you found it by accident when you made your escape from the French patrol?" Jordan led the conversation back to the topic.
"Yes... It was a barn, as regular as you know them anywhere in the country at home. Used for storage. There were many crates, barrels and packs of goods."
"They will hardly leave them there until you can find your way back and we can attempt to raid it," Jordan commented quietly.
"It is in the middle of a forest, that is all I can say. There were many men there as well. It would be tantamount to a battle to raid it and I cannot be certain we can risk such a large deployment on French territory at this point."
"You are certain the barn stood in France?"
Boyd smiled, though it was close to a grimace. "I only caught a short glimpse of the stars, but it was South-West from here. When I fled, I fled in a Northern direction."
"Belgian territory makes a dip southwards near Charleroi..."
"...No, it was French territory. We know that Napoleon is not yet ready for battle. None of his men would risk being caught on our side."
There was a pause as the men contemplated the situation. The French border was a few miles from their encampment, which made scouting missions a tedious business. They needed to leave the horses behind, a dangerous situation all the time, and depend on their feet.
"Did you see Jean le Pilleur?" Jordan asked after a while.
"Without knowing anything about his appearance, I cannot say. We know nothing about him, except that he is brutal, cunning and - if it is even him - wearing an expensive signet ring." Boyd shook his head.
"Rumours do say that he is English," Jordan continued.
"True, but that does not give us a reprieve. There are thousands of English men who have died or disappeared throughout the last twenty years. Over in America they do not even know yet how many men they have lost. No head count has been attempted. They have still not accounted for all the men who died or disappeared in the Peninsula."
Wharton picked up, noticing how pain flashed over the Captain's face. "Which means that we could actually deal with a deserter who exchanged his identity with that of a dead man."
"Possibly through all ranks."
"In America they had this problem on quite a large scale. I have heard that they are missing quite a few of their ranking officers, declared them dead after several months, despite not being certain that they indeed are." Once again, Boyd shook his head. "It has been easy in the upheaval of the last months to slip back to the continent. Ships have not been as thoroughly searched, identities not exhaustively confirmed."
"A deserter of rank then?" Jordan asked once more.
He did not receive a reply, seeing as there really was not any.
The lads had looked slightly sceptical, despite their attempt to conceal it. His tendency to do things his own way was well-known and in a way, last night's embarrassment spurred him on to find the places again and redeem himself. Yet Boyd could hardly hide that he was not just driven by professional embarrassment or enthusiasm.
There were marks on his body, faint, but undeniably there.
He was not even sure why he wanted to see the woman again, whether it was for punishment or a repetition of the night before, he just knew that he did.
In a way, he was also certain that he would see her again.
That was the main reason why he had sent Jordan and Wharton into a different direction, scouting the area near Charleroi. They needed to take a closer look at the area, find spots where an army could camp and prepare for battle, in addition to discovering Jean le Pilleur and his network.
It was sensible to send off his men into different directions.
Only Boyd had a rather unprofessional agenda. He knew that, and they knew it as well.
In the relatively clear night, Boyd quickly found his way back to the shed. Observed from the edge of the meadow, it stood still and silent in the middle. To Boyd it appeared both homely and secretive.
There was movement in front of it, quickly proving to be a woman.
Boyd felt his heartbeat speed up.
He had only seen her last night, had only touched her last night, yet he could not be in doubt about the woman's identity. Her silhouette was familiar as if he had watched her for ages before.
She stood alone before the hut, at peace with the night's air, wholly unconcerned with her safety. Yet he knew, before he even moved out of the shadows, that she was aware of his presence.
She did not turn as he approached, giving him time to imagine the look on her face. She would not smile, he knew that. A carefully schooled expression, looking right through him and all his pretences. Before her he could not play, did not have to do it either.
Standing behind her for a few moments, he felt a smile grow. She had not exactly dressed up for the occasion, it was not feasible in this terrain, but her dress was carefully arranged, laying her shoulders and décolletage bare.
Her skin was pale in the light of the night, gleaming.
Not able to resist, he extended his hand and laid it on her shoulder. The touch was rewarded with a shiver rushing down her body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The sight caused a swift reaction, erasing every hesitation he might have had.
Gently, but firmly her turned her, instantly caught by the look in her eyes, the all-knowing, all-accepting gaze. She did not resist, her arms rising to encircle his neck.
He was not the conqueror here, would never be with her. The realization fanned the fire in his blood, made him step forward and pull her into his arms. She moulded herself against him, curves against planes, her hands at once mapping the length of his spine.
Her lips ghosted over his chest, before he had even realized that she had opened his shirt, pulling it off his body. Groaning as her lips closed around a nipple, his fingers stroked through the elaborate, but surprisingly short style of her hair, gripping, holding and massaging her scalp. She purred in response, smiling at the predictability of his.
She was a dangerous woman, but he had never been so eager to risk anything and everything.
Pulling her down with him, he rolled her underneath him, towering over her as he settled between her legs. There were still her skirts between them, though they both knew they would not stay for long.
Pulling back, he looked at her, waiting for their eyes to connect.
Boyd still could not be completely certain, but he found himself drowning in what he was convinced were the deepest blue eyes he had ever encountered.
Involuntarily, he smiled, cupping her cheek and tracing her skin tenderly with his thumb. She smiled back, warm and knowing, her hand covering his.
"You are not surprised," he rasped. His body was already on fire, beckoned by the softness and fragrance of hers. In her arms he would lose himself for the night, possibly for eternity, something she seemed to know too.
"I knew you would come," she replied, her smile deepening.
For a moment, his ardour was doused, his naturally suspicious mind reasserting itself. Boyd frowned, narrowing his eyes at her.
She did not pick up on the sudden chill between them, or hid it well. If anything, her smile became wider, her features rife with amusement.
"I knew you would be here tonight, just as you knew that I would return to see you."
Had he known that? How did she know? Could his actions of last night have spoken of such desperation, such intimate connection that he could not bear a full day without her company?
Her hand on his cheek brought his attention back to her and he found her to have risen up on her elbow, her face now almost level with his.
"No questions..."
"Who are you?" he whispered as quietly as she had spoken.
In reply she shook her head. "It has no meaning. I do not know who you are, it is not important who I am."
Boyd wanted to protest, all that he had been trained to be screamed against him trusting her so easily, but she closed the distance and kissed him, insistently, but with more finesse than he remembered from any woman in the past.
It was an illusion, of course, but for the moment he found that he did not care much beyond pulling the dress from her shoulder to free her breasts to his mouth.
As he engulfed her nipple, she arched into his touch, moulding herself against him and begging for more. Her moan as he moved to the pulse point under her left ear, echoed in his head heating his blood even further, and he gave up all notion of thought in favour of losing himself in the pleasure of this enigmatic woman.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated
