JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 33 из 203It was a reaction to her beauty as much as a reaction to the knowledge that a girl with this kind of looks did not need a shabby Lieutenantwithout a private fortune. She could take her pick of the rich officers, but that did not stop Sharpe looking at her and desiring her. She seemed to read his thoughts.
“You think I should be afraid?”
Sharpe shrugged, glancing up the road where the Battalion’s smoke drifted into the evening. “Soldiers aren’t delicate, ma’am.”
“Thank you for warning me.” She was mocking him. She looked down at his faded red sash. “Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Sharpe, ma’am.”
“Lieutenant Sharpe.” She smiled at him, spitting him with her beauty. “You must know Christian Gibbons?”
He nodded, knowing the unfairness of life. Money could buy anything: a commission, promotion, a sword fashioned to a man’s height and strength, even a woman like this. “I know him.”
“And you don’t like him!” She laughed, knowing that her instinct was right. “But I do.” She clicked her tongue at the horse and gathered up the reins. “I expect we will meet again. I am going with you to Madrid.”
Sharpe did not want her to go. “You’re a long way from home.”
She turned back, mocking him with a smile. “So are you, Lieutenant, so are you.”
She led the limping mare, followed by the mute servant, towards the stand of trees and the cooking fires. Sharpe watched her go, let his eyes see her slim figure beneath the black clothes, and felt the envy and heaviness of his desire. He walked back into the olive grove, as if by leaving the road he could wipe her from his memory and regain the peace of the afternoon. Damn Gibbons and his money, damn all officers who could buy such thoroughbred beauty. He knew it was jealousy, yet he encouraged the sour thoughts, let them swill round his head to try to convince himself that he did not want her, but as he walked between the gnarled trees he felt the horse-shoe nail still held in his right palm. He looked at it, a short, bent nail, and tucked it carefully into his ammunition pouch. He told himself it would come in useful; he needed a nail to jam the mainspring of the rifle when he stripped the lock for cleaning, but better nails were plentiful and he knew he was keeping it because it had been hers. Angrily he fished among the fat cartridges and threw the nail far away.
From the Battalion there came the sound of musket fire, and he knew that bullocks had been slaughtered for the evening meal. There would be wine with the stew, and Hogan’s brandy after it, and stories about old friends and half-forgotten campaigns.
“You think I should be afraid?”
Sharpe shrugged, glancing up the road where the Battalion’s smoke drifted into the evening. “Soldiers aren’t delicate, ma’am.”
“Thank you for warning me.” She was mocking him. She looked down at his faded red sash. “Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Sharpe, ma’am.”
“Lieutenant Sharpe.” She smiled at him, spitting him with her beauty. “You must know Christian Gibbons?”
He nodded, knowing the unfairness of life. Money could buy anything: a commission, promotion, a sword fashioned to a man’s height and strength, even a woman like this. “I know him.”
“And you don’t like him!” She laughed, knowing that her instinct was right. “But I do.” She clicked her tongue at the horse and gathered up the reins. “I expect we will meet again. I am going with you to Madrid.”
Sharpe did not want her to go. “You’re a long way from home.”
She turned back, mocking him with a smile. “So are you, Lieutenant, so are you.”
She led the limping mare, followed by the mute servant, towards the stand of trees and the cooking fires. Sharpe watched her go, let his eyes see her slim figure beneath the black clothes, and felt the envy and heaviness of his desire. He walked back into the olive grove, as if by leaving the road he could wipe her from his memory and regain the peace of the afternoon. Damn Gibbons and his money, damn all officers who could buy such thoroughbred beauty. He knew it was jealousy, yet he encouraged the sour thoughts, let them swill round his head to try to convince himself that he did not want her, but as he walked between the gnarled trees he felt the horse-shoe nail still held in his right palm. He looked at it, a short, bent nail, and tucked it carefully into his ammunition pouch. He told himself it would come in useful; he needed a nail to jam the mainspring of the rifle when he stripped the lock for cleaning, but better nails were plentiful and he knew he was keeping it because it had been hers. Angrily he fished among the fat cartridges and threw the nail far away.
From the Battalion there came the sound of musket fire, and he knew that bullocks had been slaughtered for the evening meal. There would be wine with the stew, and Hogan’s brandy after it, and stories about old friends and half-forgotten campaigns.