CHAPTER 1

"Demme, but you are a fool, Blackstone! I have yet to decide whether to mention you in dispatches or order a court-martial."

The dry, uncompromising words cut through the swift spiral carrying Captain Daragh Blackstone into deep blackness. Stretched flat on the surgeon's bloodied table, he fought fierce pain and forced his eyes open. Dimly he discerned his commanding officer's thin, ascetic face hovering above him.

"You disobeyed orders to hold your position. You left us without reserves," Colonel Lord Broome continued, more than ever sounding like an exasperated headmaster.

Daragh struggled to concentrate on the colonel's uniformed figure, impeccable even in Spain's wilting heat, as it faded and reappeared like a battlefield ghost.

"And yet," Lord Broome went on, a tinge of reluctant warmth in his tone, "had you not broken off to engage that flank attack, half the regiment might now be lost, and the tricoleur flying over this very headquarters."

Daragh let his eyes droop closed, satisfaction almost overcoming his pain. The battle was won. Wellington's left flank was still secure. He barely heard his colonel's crisp recommendation that, from now on, Captain Blackstone balance reckless initiative with respect for King's Regulations.

"I must be dying," Daragh thought with a wry half-grin as the Surgeon Major bent over him to cut away the twice-red tunic, "if old Sweep Clean Broome has come to see me!"

Slowly the red-hazed dream-world faded. The screams of those he slew again and again in agonizing nightmares ceased to ring in his ears. He opened his eyes.

So, he was still alive.

Alive, yes, but whole? In sudden, sick fear he groped for his right arm. Thank God, it was there, heavily bandaged, pulsing with pain, but there. As he relaxed, limp with relief, he realized he lay in his own tent, and that the hulking figure of his batman sat beside his cot. Vaguely Daragh recollected defying the Surgeon Major and staggering from the crowded, stinking field hospital, gasping like a broken-winded charger while leaning heavily on his soldier-servant's arm.

"Here now, Cap'n." Trooper Jeremy Hoskin slid his large hand under Daragh's head, raising it. "Take a little water. Steady now."

Water, warm from sitting, trickled between Daragh's parched lips. He swallowed, his dry throat constricting cruelly. Another swallow and his head was gently laid back on the thin pillow.

"Jeremy." His voice was no more than a croak.

"Aye, sir?"

Daragh cleared his throat. "How long?"

"Most of a week, Cap'n. Dawn of the seventh day. Ye lost most of yer blood, and all but burned up with fever, but I knew ye wouldn't cock up yer toes yet." He offered more water. "How are ye feelin', sir?"

Daragh drank deeply, then let his mind tentatively explore the reaches of his body. "Remarkably well," he reported, surprised. "Light. Scoured out, but, by God, still alive."

"Amen to that, sir. It was a near thing."

Daragh eyed the large man. With long, strong-boned features, sand-colored hair, and wide, humorous mouth, Jeremy Hoskin reminded him of a large, amiable wolfhound. That amiability was offset, however, by watchful brown eyes. Hoskin feared nothing, and was easily the largest, most muscular man in the regiment. Daragh himself was considered intimidating, being lofty of height and broad of shoulder, but Hoskin towered half a head over him. At the moment, he personified weariness, sitting slumped, shoulders sagging, his hands hanging limply between his knees.

"You look like hell," observed Daragh, noting Hoskin's unbuttoned tunic, several days' whisker growth and shaggy hair lying every which way. "How long since you slept?"

Copyright © 2002 by Patricia Harrison