7 June; Partners in crime

"Oh?"

"Aye," Sykes replied, smirking at the memory, "One o' me mates had the bad luck to be holdin' her from behind when she got hold o' that greenjacket's bayonet. Got it right in his bollocks, poor bastard."

Bright's hand brushed against the front of his trousers. It was good to know something like that now, rather than later - when it happened.

"A feisty bird, then," he observed. This bit of information also made him wonder just what worth that broken-down greenjacket had to the woman. Finding out would be interesting. "That looks like her just there," Bright added and checked that his bayonet was firmly seated in its scabbard. Just in case.

After another day of marching in the mud, Jenny had been negotiating with a blanchisseuse to have some of her garments cleaned, and now she was ready to return to the other women. Her instinct for self-preservation had long taught her to be aware of her surroundings, and although she was used to admiring glances, an uneasy feeling of being watched caused her to look around.

There. Amidst the French uniforms was one red coat that did not match, and it belonged to that provost. Sykes. She had not forgotten his face or his name. He had seen her, most certainly, but he was under guard. What reason could he have to be wandering this part of the camp? Jenny did not intend to stay and find out. She turned and began quickly walking away.

There she was, the little whore who had ruined everything. He was going to enjoy this. Eventually, he amended, hobbling forward. "I'll catch up."

A predatory grin spread across Bright's face when he spotted their quarry. They'd been spotted and the woman was attempting to get away, but Bright was not prepared to pass up a prime chance.

"C'mere there, you," he said, lengthening his stride so he might catch up with her. As long as no officers interfered, this would be good. Very good.

It was an English voice speaking to her, but it was not Sykes. It was his French escort. Had one of the prisoners put on a French uniform as a disguise? Jenny did not know or care. If he was associated with Sykes, she wanted nothing to do with him. She continued walking without looking back.

So it was to be like that, was it? Fine then. Bright stirred into a trot, which brought him up behind his quarry in short order.

"Don't speak English anymore, eh?" He grabbed at her arm to pull her to a stop. " 'C'mere' don't mean run off."

She spun around to face him. She did not have much choice, since her arm was a pivot in his grasp. She stared at his hand and then his face while her mind whirled. Indignant. She selected cold and indignant. "What do you want? Let go of my arm."

"Fiery, eh?" Bright didn't trouble himself to release her arm. "I'm wonderin' after yer greenjacket lad, see. Heard he got up onto his busted legs an' wandered off."

There was little point in dancing around the subject, really. He didn't have the patience for that anyway.

"I asked you to let go of my arm."

"Well, now," came Sykes' soft drawl from behind the woman, "Don't this jus' bring back memories?"

Bright smirked. "Don't recall hearin' you ask that," he said. "Memories, eh? A happy sort an' all, I'll wager!"

Even though she had been expecting it, Sykes' voice caused Jenny's heart to shudder. But she addressed herself to Bright once again. "Don't speak English any more? Laissez-moi!" Her voice was now loud enough to attract the attention of others.

"D'you reckon somebody's gonna save you?" Bright scoffed. "Not this evenin'!"

Jenny looked around to see if any of the officers or men were listening. One or two seemed interested, at least. She gestured wildly toward the redcoat and cried out in French as if speaking to Bright: "No, my husband is not a spy!"

She would know the blasted language, Sykes thought sourly, watching the entire display with manifest suspicion. "What's she on about?"

"Oh shut up," Bright snapped, giving the tart a rough shake. To Sykes, he said, "She's claimin' yer a spy. An' her husband at that!"

"No!" Jenny cried, now in simplistic English. "My love, I have not betrayed your secrets!"

Hearing the commotion, Chevenier urged his horse forward and reined in as he drew near the small group.

"What's going on here?" he asked, tone deceptively light. There was more than enough trouble among the army as it was, and his patience was wearing thin.

Then, he noticed the woman in between them.

"Miss Ross," he said, inclining his head. Of course she would be at the center of trouble. Though, by the looks of it, far from her own making. Chevenier knew that plenty happened among the men that was less than honourable, but that did not mean he had to condone it. He glared at the two soldiers. "Is there a problem?"

And here finally was an intervention, and from an officer she knew, no less! "Oh monsieur," she cried in French before the men could stop her. "My husband is not a spy, not a spy!"

Sykes offered a low, fervent curse. An officer. A bleeding officer! Again. All that was needed was the Frog equivalent of that giant from the woods to complete his bad luck.

The woman had begun nattering again in French and Sykes glared at her. One good blow was all it would take. That would shut her up. Instead, he switched his attention to Bright, watching the other man's reactions for any clue as to what was being said.

"You're married?" Chevenier asked, surprised.

He turned his attention to the man in question, and frowned. The Englishman had a shifty, untrustworthy look to him. Still, he found it difficult to believe that too much spying was being done from the prisoners' line.

"Perhaps you had best start from the beginning, and tell me what's going on," he said, suppressing a sigh.

How lovely. An officer, sweeping in to the rescue. Just what they bloody needed.

"Sir." Bright uttered the word curtly, as the only outward sign of his temper. "This one was close with the grasshoppers. The ones that escaped."

Raising an eyebrow, Chevenier asked drily, "In constant contact even now, are they?"

He sighed. That had them no closer to having the problem solved. "He is close to the escaped Riflemen, you said. And Miss Ross makes out that you are accusing him of espionage. Am I to take it that you suspect this man of being part of the escape?"

Which would be a definite bit of trouble for the soldier. The escape had put everyone into a frenzy, and no one wanted to feel at fault. It would make them vicious to anyone they could pin blame on.