JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 79 из 213” Her voice had changed again, this time she had spoken with a soft sadness. She stood up and walked to the lattice, pushing open one of the doors. “That business tonight was a shambles.”
The previous subject seemed to have been forgotten, as if it had never existed. Sharpe turned to look at her. “Yes.”
“Why did the Peer order the attack? It seemed hopeless.”
Sharpe was tempted to say that she had wanted a battle, almost pleaded with Wellington for one, but this new, crisp woman was not someone he wanted to annoy, not at this moment. “He’s always impetuous at sieges. He likes to get them done.”
“Which means many deaths?” Her fingers were beating a swift tattoo on the frame of the lattice.
“Yes.”
“What happens now?” She was staring at the forts and Sharpe was staring at her profile. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
“We’ll have to dig trenches. We’ll have to do everything properly.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Probably in the ravine.”
“Show me.”
He went to her side, smelling her, feeling her closeness to him and he wondered if she could detect his trembling. He could see a silver comb holding up her piled hair and then he looked away and pointed at the gorge. “Along the right hand side, Ma’am, close to the San Vincente.”
She turned her face to his, just inches away, and her eyes were violet in the moonlight that threw shadows beneath the high cheekbones. “How long will that take?”
“It could be done in two days.”
She kept her face turned up and her eyes stayed on his eyes. He was aware of her body, of the bare shoulders, of dark shadows that promised softness.
She turned abruptly away and crossed to the table. “You haven’t eaten.”
“A little, Ma’am.”
“Come and sit. Pour me some wine.” There were partridges roasted whole, quails stuffed with meat and peppers, and small slices of fruit, that she said were quinces, that had been dipped in syrup and sugar. Sharpe took off his shako, propped his rifle against the wall, and sat. He did not touch the food. He poured her wine, moved the bottle to his own glass, and she stared at him, half smiling, and spoke in a detached, curious voice. “Why didn’t you kiss me just then?”
The bottle clinked dangerously against his glass. He set it down. “I didn’t want to offend you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A kiss is offensive?”
“If it’s not wanted.
The previous subject seemed to have been forgotten, as if it had never existed. Sharpe turned to look at her. “Yes.”
“Why did the Peer order the attack? It seemed hopeless.”
Sharpe was tempted to say that she had wanted a battle, almost pleaded with Wellington for one, but this new, crisp woman was not someone he wanted to annoy, not at this moment. “He’s always impetuous at sieges. He likes to get them done.”
“Which means many deaths?” Her fingers were beating a swift tattoo on the frame of the lattice.
“Yes.”
“What happens now?” She was staring at the forts and Sharpe was staring at her profile. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
“We’ll have to dig trenches. We’ll have to do everything properly.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Probably in the ravine.”
“Show me.”
He went to her side, smelling her, feeling her closeness to him and he wondered if she could detect his trembling. He could see a silver comb holding up her piled hair and then he looked away and pointed at the gorge. “Along the right hand side, Ma’am, close to the San Vincente.”
She turned her face to his, just inches away, and her eyes were violet in the moonlight that threw shadows beneath the high cheekbones. “How long will that take?”
“It could be done in two days.”
She kept her face turned up and her eyes stayed on his eyes. He was aware of her body, of the bare shoulders, of dark shadows that promised softness.
She turned abruptly away and crossed to the table. “You haven’t eaten.”
“A little, Ma’am.”
“Come and sit. Pour me some wine.” There were partridges roasted whole, quails stuffed with meat and peppers, and small slices of fruit, that she said were quinces, that had been dipped in syrup and sugar. Sharpe took off his shako, propped his rifle against the wall, and sat. He did not touch the food. He poured her wine, moved the bottle to his own glass, and she stared at him, half smiling, and spoke in a detached, curious voice. “Why didn’t you kiss me just then?”
The bottle clinked dangerously against his glass. He set it down. “I didn’t want to offend you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A kiss is offensive?”
“If it’s not wanted.