WRITTEN IN DUST,
CARVED IN BONE

by Kitty Fisher

PROLOGUE
The Portuguese/Spanish borderlands. 1812.

It was as hot a night as hell itself ever saw; or so Sergeant Patrick Harper was certain. Despite the fact that he was lying naked on a carefully heaped mound of straw, and was happily enjoying the unusual pleasure of a night spent away from both the snores of his men and the more welcome curves of Ramona, his Spanish wife–in–all–but–name, on any other night he would have seriously wondered if it would be more comfortable to abandon the hay–loft in exchange for rough ground and the possibility of some air. But not tonight. Instead of creeping down to find a breath of breeze Harper stayed where he was; he didn't move at all, just sighed softly to himself. For a man so used to sharing every hour of the day, such solitariness was a pleasure akin to tasting the finest brandy, and one almost as rarely indulged. Especially as it was soon to become a solitariness shared by two; for tonight he was indulging in an assignation.

Harper grinned at the shadowy beams above his head. Turning onto his back, he stretched both arms out wide to catch the thin thread of air that made it past the open loft–door; sighing as a tickle of breeze stirred the hairs on his chest and giving a wriggle as the straw scratched at his back. He stilled happily, that was better. Not perfect, but better.

Harper closed his eyes and settled deeper into the make–do mattress. The night was very still, the barn softly settling around him with the occasional gentle creek of wood and sigh of straw settling. The silence was so pleasant, not a snore to be heard. He smiled into the shadowy beams above his head and remembered with a thrill of anticipation why he was here. The smile spread itself into a grin.

Captain Richard Sharpe. His captain. A man for whom there was nothing Harper would not have done.

The simple fact that Harper was a Irishman and Sharpe English, made this a surprise to everyone, including the two men involved. It was a toss up who Harper hated most, the English or officers. Both were soft, murdering bastards, and English officers had to be ranked high up with the worst of all. Except Sharpe, for Sharpe was different, something it hadn't taken long, after a short misunderstanding, for the Irishman to find out.

Sharpe had been raised from the ranks by Wellesley himself, going overnight from sergeant to lieutenant and fighting every day from then on to win not only the respect of his fellow officers, but also that of his men who considered themselves short–changed by not having an officer who talked as if he had a plum in his mouth and cared for them as little as if they were cattle. Winning over the men had been easy enough, Sharpe never got his men killed without reason, and he cared, so much so that he sometimes seemed to shoulder all the troubles of the war. He also fought like a man possessed, and had proved himself lucky on more than one occasion, a fact more valuable to the ordinary soldier than all the gold in Spain. Respect and admiration, awe and obedience were his due from his men. The officers of the regiment proved harder, but as Sharpe didn't appear to give a damn, Harper didn't care about them either. What Sharpe wanted, Harper endeavoured to get, what annoyed Sharpe, Harper did his best to get rid of. They worked together well, and the fact that on occasions they managed to find a secret place of pleasure for themselves amidst the carnage and mayhem of a very bloody war, served to make their relationship — in Harper's experience, for there were rumours about certain other men, but nothing that had been substantiated — unique.

He sighed and, against his will, felt himself begin the slow drift towards sleep; his limbs weighted, his mind slowing. It wouldn't take much to slide all the way. It must be late. Late and finally getting cooler.

Sharpe should be here by now.

Not that Harper would be getting much sleep if he was. Demanding in every way, that was Sharpe. On and off the battlefield. He grinned, wondering what the stuffed–shirts would make of their liaison, for a start they'd have Sharpe's officers sash off him faster than anything. And his own stripes. That and maybe their lives; funny about that sort of thing, the army was. He grinned again, certain that he was safe.

Then he heard it; a soft chink of metal on metal.

The old wood of the small barn creaked gently, the noise hardly more than a settling of joists and the easing of sun–baked wood as it cooled. One soft sound among many. But he knew. And within moments the shadows shifted, hardening into the shape of a man climbing through the loft's open hatch.

"Pat?"

The whisper hardly stirred the night, but it was enough.

"Captain."

"Ay. Sorry it took me so long, did I wake you?"

"No, it's too damn hot to sleep." Harper shifted on the blanket, propping himself on an elbow so he could watch the dark clothes being removed. "I knew you'd be here if you could."

"Damn right. Where's Ramona?"

"With Mary Fields. She's due any hour now."

"Which leaves you to me." Sharpe was smiling, the moonlight catching his face as he turned and stripped off his shirt. Neither man raised his voice above a murmur; neither had any desire to be caught.

"Exactly, sir."

"Sir?" Sharpe gently mocked his sergeant's tone. "Where d'you think we are, on the bloody parade ground?"

"Not dressed like this, that's for sure."

"Make a strange sight, I'll give you that." Sharpe stepped out of the Cavalry overalls he'd stripped from a dead Frenchman and stood naked. "They'd probably have us both on report."

"Or latrine digging for a week."

"No thanks." Sharpe took his sword and laid it by the improvised bed. "I can think of things I'd much rather do. Like this..."

Harper grunted softly as Sharpe mildly miscalculated where his body was. "What's that then, beat me up?"

"Not unless you don't keep still, no."

Harper stopped trying to make room and sighed as Sharpe spread himself down the length of his body, "Ah, so that's what you were trying to do."

Sharpe grunted as arms muscled like steel wrapped their way around him. "Ay. Thought it was obvious."

"I must be a bit slow today."

Sharpe considered what was pressing against his belly and smiled. "Not that slow."

"Well..." Sharpe slid off him, and Harper gasped as a hand skimmed down to his groin. "Jesus, I've been waiting for you, what d'you expect?"

The shadowy face was grinning, alight with more than amusement. "Perhaps I should make you wait more often."

With a sudden movement, Harper wrestled his captain to the floor, pinning his hands above his head. Both men were grinning, breath quickened by the nearness of what they had been waiting for.

"Pat..."

Harper swallowed, just finding the strength to avoid beginning a kiss he knew his captain wouldn't want. "Ready?"

Sharpe nodded, the banter and the amusement all gone. "Let me go then."

Harper released the fine, strong wrists and watched as the night–silvered body settled onto its front. It was always the same. A ritual by which they kept sane; kept the dark and the evil away. Harper no longer hoped for more. Or to be more honest, he no longer hoped very often.

He reached for the oil left ready by the wall and poured some into his hand. Sharpe's skin was smooth under his fingers, the parting to admit him, smoother still where he pushed inside. The soft sound of pleasure that even this could bring was enough to pump his blood faster. He slipped a second finger through the tightness, feeling as it gave, relaxed at his command. A third, and Sharpe was writhing under his touch. "Ready..." It was almost a question, almost a statement.

"Ay."

Harper knelt between the outstretched thighs, taking a moment to caress the curves that were offered to him. He felt Sharpe move against the touch, arch as he asked for more; the slight movement as carnal as any Harper had seen made by man or woman. He shivered, readying them both with skilled hands and then, with a sure, practised flex of strong muscles, slid home.

"Jesus?" Sharpe bit down hard on the cry, the sudden penetration shocking, unbearably exciting. He could feel the tightness of Harper's scrotum prickling against his buttocks, the weight of the big man heavy as he shifted, straightening his legs, supporting most of his weight on his arms. Harper pulled back very slightly, then slowly pushed deep again, then again, this time hard, almost brutal, making Sharpe claw at the floor as the pleasure shuddered through him. Feral, basic, as simple a coupling as was possible, yet the strength of affection between them took away any edge of darkness. This was pleasure, fought hard for and found.

A long pull back this time, very slow, making Sharpe's breath come in short erratic bursts as anticipation threaded his nerves with icicles of need. He was whispering incoherent sounds, if he was begging then only the night heard, then Harper slid home again, hard. It was as if shell exploded behind his eyes, the bright spear of pleasure turning him blind, deaf, incapable of any sentient thought but that of craving. This time the long withdrawal almost made him scream, until the waiting was done and Harper was there, again.

Sharpe was making a soft sound in the back of his throat, lost. Harper changed his position, pulling the supple body with him, making it kneel, reaching around to take the hot, weeping cock into his hand, gentling its velvet hardness as he would an animal. Then, taking pity, he circled its base with his big fingers and began to fuck in earnest, hard and fast as he knew his officer liked, on and on, until Sharpe arched and shook and the cock in his hand began to jerk, spitting jism into the straw. Sheathed deep, milked by tight contractions of pleasure, Harper could stand it no longer. Sweat dripping down his body he shuddered, head tossed back, the sinews of his throat stark with the effort it took not to announce his conquest to the world, roaring silently into the night as pleasure tore savagely through him, seeming to last forever, until his muscles turned to liquid and with a soft grunt he fell forward, taking Sharpe to lie flat under him.

Crushed by greater weight, Sharpe lay still, slightly dazed, completely pleasured. He licked his lips and winced as Harper carefully withdrew, taking a deep breath as the heavy body lifted away and settled at his side.

"Good?"

"Ay." Sharpe barely had the energy to speak. "Great." With an effort he slowly turned himself over and lay a hand on Harper's arm.

A grin flashed white in the shadows. "I'm feeling quite fine myself."

"Good, then come here and shut up?"

"Ay, sir?"

A growl. "And less cheek, sergeant, if you please."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

They both grinned, and Harper settled with his arm around Sharpe. They both intended to talk, to savour this delightful isolation, but instead they both drifted almost immediately into sleep, the rest they shared with each other the only sound sleep either of them knew.

* * * * *

PART ONE
Estramadura, Spain. 1813.

It was whispered that the village called Maura was haunted. Solitary and scorned, it was situated in a valley of squared–off fields where the few, ragged crops ran to seed in weed–infested furrows. It was a poor place with scarcely a house taller than one storey, with all the white–plaster walls gray and cracked with age. At the centre of the village could be seen a church, one that must once have been a fine monument to the steadfast faith of the villagers, though now its bell–tower was crumbling, the white stucco peeling away in swathes as, slowly, defeated by the burnishing Spanish sun, it was turning back to the ochre earth from which it came.

From a distance, Captain Richard Sharpe and Sergeant Patrick Harper looked at the village, then with a glance that needed no words rode the last few hundred yards across the dead fields. Close to the nearest house they found some trees, small gnarled things, but enough to tether the horses to. Without words they took up rifles, loaded and ready, and entered the pathetic ruin of tumbling–down houses that had once been a place of work and worship and laughter for a few hundred people. It was all now empty. No Spaniard would now willingly spend a night here; the ruins were too reminiscent of the terrible day the French had spent butchering its small population. They said the ghosts here spoke clearly to the living, and while the enemy still camped on Spanish land the living had no word of vengeance to give the ghosts rest. Maura was a place of the cursed, and now none but the damned ever wandered her streets.

Not that the two Riflemen had any choice.

As Sharpe paced through the ruins he stretched his senses, listening to the creak of heat–sodden wood, the whisper of animals scurrying away in fear behind rotting plaster and the uncanny silence that only a place destroyed by violence ever holds. All was quiet, except for the soft creak of leather as they walked, the sigh of cloth against cloth, not a sound was out of place. The village was empty of everything but ruin. If there were ghosts, he didn't hear them. His temperament refused to allow such things. He knew his companion was different. Patrick Harper could conjure spirits from the air, hear ghosts among the cannon fire. Sharpe knew without asking that he was hating this place.

They walked slowly the length of the only street worth gracing with that name, spread out, wary. Though there was no need, for they were alone, despite the fact that Harper had continually glanced from left to right, occasionally turned full circle as he walked, nobody else was alive, only the rats. He walked with his finger on the trigger of his already primed rifle; not that it would be any use here. There were no Frenchmen, they were all long gone, months gone; they had left nothing but unburied corpses, women defiled and children speared on their lances' fine–honed points.

Harper spat into the dust.

Roused from his dark thoughts, Sharpe looked briefly at his companion, then nodded. "Ay, it's not a good place."

"Damn right. Are you sure I can't be coming with you?"

Sharpe sighed, not even bothering to argue the issue again. Harper knew the answer anyway. Despite the horror that seemed to crawl up through the road and from every half–burned and abandoned building, this was the safest place to wait. "With any amount of luck you won't be here long. I'll be back in two days, three at the most."

"And if you're not?"

"Tell Hogan I failed, that the bastards wouldn't listen to me."

"And probably cut your throat to shut you up."

"Probably."

Harper spat again. "Hogan's a murdering bastard. Sir."

"Ay, but he also gives the orders."

"That he does." Harper sounded none too happy about the fact.

His attention diverted, Sharpe stopped in his tracks. The street they had walked so carefully along was hard–packed dirt, with wind–blown rubbish banked against the walls and all the debris of destruction scattered across it. In the ground at his feet, something glinted brightly, caught in the late autumn sunlight. He crouched down, slinging his rifle back over his shoulders, and with his finger prised it out of the earth, cleaning it roughly on the dark wool of his sleeve. It was a tiny gold ring, a child's ring, a simple twist of metal, battered and dented, but still somehow holding its original shape. He held it in his palm and hated the French with a simple ferocity.

"Poor thing."

Sharpe looked up at his sergeant, and grimly agreed. It was the small things like this that hurt, more than a hundred battles or a thousand dead men. He hoped the child had died easily.

"With the French looting everything and killing whenever they feel like it, how can any of the Spanish want to fight on their side?"

Sharpe slowly stood up and shook his head, fingers closing around the ring. "Reasons I can't fathom. Christ, these bloody bandits or guerrilleros or partisans or whatever they like to call themselves have set up their camp so close to here they must know what happened, how every person here was massacred in cold blood by those Crapaud bastards, yet they still fight against us."

"Somebody buried the bodies." They had passed what could only have been a communal grave as they approached the village. "And that certainly wasn't the French." The French scarcely ever bothered with their own dead let alone the Spanish.

"Hogan said that people from the countryside did it, that they tried to clean this place up, settle here again. They lasted a week."

"The ghosts drove them away."

And the poisoned well, and the bones the burial party had missed, picked clean by scavengers, that caught the eye like sun–bleached linen amongst the dust.

"Ay, and the rest of it." Richard Sharpe thought for a moment, his attention entirely on his friend, then his empty hand reached out and lightly touched Harper's sleeve, resting there for a fleet moment before dropping away. "You could go back. I'll make my own way home."

"You can't get rid of me that easily." He smiled widely. "Once I've told the ghosts I'm Irish I'll be fine as ninepence. Don't you worry yourself, you just go and sort out that mad bastard in the mountains. Though I still don't like any of it. Besides, I can't go too far, you might need me."

Sharpe nodded at that plain truth. "I'd better not take this." He held the child's ring lightly in his hand, then offered it to Harper. "It belongs here."

Their fingers met and in silence they said everything that was needed. Harper took the ring into his large hand. It was warm from his Captain's skin. "I'll be waiting. Off you go now."

Sharpe obeyed, turning on his heel to walk back to where he had tethered his horse, his mind already concerned with the guerrilleros, their mysterious leader and the simple objective of staying alive.

* * * * *

The summer, even for the Peninsular that comprised Spain and Portugal, had been hot and the autumn was proving a continuation of the same. As he rode, Sharpe cursed the sun that sat banked behind a tracery of thin, wispy clouds, burning through them with a humidity that made his uniform cling with sweat to his back and shoulders and the unfamiliar saddle to chafe his thighs.

Even after hours of riding he was only in the foothills, about half way to his goal, the landscape turning from scrub and dust and ancient olive groves to rocky inclines and trees whose leaves seemed burned to blackness in the vicious sunlight. Pulling on the slippery reins he made the horse stand, slapped its neck like he had seen cavalry officers do, and slid to the ground, thankful for even a moment to have the solidity of earth under his feet. Horses would never be his preffered mode of transport, but even he admitted they were essential when needing to get somewhere in a hurry.

It was still hours before he would be where he was heading; what Hogan had described as a half–ruined castle, high in these mountains. It had taken longer than he had wanted to get even this far, and the map Hogan had drawn left a lot to be desired. He'd backtracked more than once, deceived by lines that told of streams that were not in fact there and streams that were indisputably there but had somehow been missed off the map. In the end Sharpe had stuffed the greasy scrap of paper into his saddle–bags and ridden on, trusting to instinct and the remembered instructions from Hogan, which were a hundred time more useful than his sketch.

Narrowing his eyes he scanned the horizon. So far he hadn't felt the signs of hidden eyes watching and there had been no movement at all apart from the steady passage of his own horse. The group of Spaniards he was trying to make contact with controlled all this area, he knew that much. But that was just about all he knew. He didn't know how many of them were holed up in these hills, or how well they were armed, or why Hogan thought sending Sharpe to talk with them was better than sending an Exploring Officer, or indeed anyone who was fluent in Spanish. Sometimes Hogan's habit of keeping all the relevant information to himself was acutely irritating.

Though he hadn't been shot at yet, which was a mercy in itself. Hogan had a nasty habit of getting Sharpe into trouble, one he sincerely hoped wouldn't be elaborated on today.

Sharpe stretched, easing the muscles in his legs that were complaining about the unaccustomed usage of riding rather than marching. In the heat, he'd already unbuttoned his dark–green rifleman's jacket, and with a sigh that was half a groan, he slid it from his shoulders, cursing the lack of breeze to lift the crumpled cotton shirt from his skin, or dry the sweat that clung to the long, exposed line of his throat.

It was well past noon, yet the heat didn't seem to be easing one notch.

He took a swig of warm, stale water from his canteen, swallowing it down with a grimace, then hooked the worn leather flask back over the saddle.

In the bright heat he stood for a long moment, seeing nothing of the dry land or the baked earth at his feet, wondering if going on was the right thing, if in fact it wouldn't be better to stay here overnight, to wait for morning before bearding this lion in its den. It would be almost dark when he arrived. And night had unaccountable, mysterious effects on the way men thought. Death always seemed far closer, far more real in the long hours of the darkness. As if the shadows or the moon made it far easier to think of madness and death; made it easier to kill.

A cloud slipped across the sun and he shivered, before roughly cursing superstition.

He took a deep breath, then tied his jacket across the top of the saddle–bags, decision made. Not that there had really been any choice. He would go on. Gathering the reins into his lean, tanned fingers, he levered himself back onto the horse and began once more to head for the distance.

It was a few hours later when, skin prickling in warning, he felt the first watcher.

He'd been climbing steadily for an hour and knew his destination was close. The path had narrowed, turning into a dry track beaten into the barren hill–side. There were sick looking trees and sporadic scrub–land, nothing to give good cover, but there were so many folds in the land that he could have been surrounded by half a battalion and not known it. He did know they were there though, not how many, but they were there.

In the distance his eyes caught the flicker of a signal, a mirror used to catch the lowering sun and transmit a message across miles of country. With a tightening of his throat and a prickle of fresh sweat between his shoulder blades, he wondered what the message was. He hoped they would be polite enough at least to ask who he was before shooting him. All this venture was a gamble and had been so from the beginning, but one Hogan assured him was worth the risk.

Sharpe was suddenly not quite so sure.

When they came into sight and started flanking his horse, moving with him, he knew at least that he wasn't dead. Yet. They were four horsemen, mounted on the thick–coated, sure–footed horses the mountain people favoured. The men were all were armed, muskets clasped lightly, familiarly, as they eyed their captive.

For Sharpe had no doubts at all that captive described exactly what he now was.

They let him ride in silence the long, steep path that led right up to the gates of their stronghold. Ancient and impressive it dominated the countryside, stark in the golden light as the sun set closer and closer to the horizon. Though it was only from this near to the old walls that Sharpe could see the chunks of masonry that were missing, and realised that the place was little more that a grandiose, elaborate ruin. But one that was more then enough for the guerrilleros' purposes. Even falling–down the building would be easy enough to defend and throughout the walls were signs of building work, as if large parts of the fortification had been recently shored up. Automatically, Sharpe's mind assessed its vulnerability and he took little time in coming to the conclusion that he was glad he'd never have to lay siege to this particular fortress. It would be possible to break through the walls, but it would be a suicidal task. Hogan had been right, the bastard, the only way to win here was to talk them around, persuade them that the British were on their side and the only ones to fight were the French. Easier said than done though. Not for the first time, Sharpe cursed, and thought, with a certain despairing humour, that it was a shame Hogan hadn't come himself.

Look–outs had clearly announced their arrival for the great gates groaned open as they approached. Sharpe started to rein in, but the Spanish were suddenly very close, urging his horse forward with calls and cries, crowding her until she hastened forward without any choice.

From dying sunlight, to shadows as they passed under the walls, to sunlight again, each time it took Sharpe's eyes time to adjust, until he was almost blind. Hands were at his horse's bridle, tugging the reins from his fingers until he gave them up. Surrounded, no longer master of his own fate, he rode into the castle's large central courtyard as it opened up before him.

He blinked, and as his vision cleared he saw there were about a couple of hundred men about, ragged, sun–dark, vicious, all watching him. He felt their eyes devour him greedily in an eerie silence that magnified the sound of hooves against the battered and uneven flag–stones that paved the ground. He sensed nothing but animosity, tinged perhaps with a little amused curiousity as to why he was there; why a mouse had stepped so readily into the cat's domain. They certainly were not afraid of him, but there was no reason on earth why they should be. It wasn't as if he had a battalion at his back. Or even a company.

Something he was beginning rapidly to regret.

There was less sign of dilapidation here. The ramshackle outside turning into a haphazard but efficient camp. Though all the men's clothing was ragged and filthy, from what he could see their weapons were clean and workmanlike.

A spike of alarm shafted through him at the sound of the gates creaking closed. He half turned, but it was as if the closing gate had released a torrent of noise as everyone began to speak at once. Almost unnerved, Sharpe called out loudly, a parade–ground voice to reach over the clamouring voices. "My name is Richard Sharpe. I'm a Captain of the 95th Rifles in King George's army."

There was no reaction except sudden and absolute silence.

Sharpe took a deep breath to continue, but the sound died in his throat as from high on one of the balconies that circled the courtyard came the sound of a single pair of hands clapping very slowly. Trying with knees alone to control his suddenly uneasy horse, Sharpe looked up and saw a man, standing staring at him, bringing his hands together in a mockery of applause, the sound as derisive as the most taunting of words.

Sharpe addressed the figure in limited Spanish. "¿Donde esta el commandante aqui?"

The echoing sound stopped and the man leaned forward, resting his hands on the ornate stone wall that edged the balcony. He was in quite deep shadow and all Sharpe could make out was a tall, straight form dressed seemingly in unrelenting black that faded like camouflage into the shadows, leaving the sombre face, the long, light–coloured hair and the still hands as his only frame of reference.

"I'm here to offer support — Me han mandado aqui para hablar contigo, para ofrecer nuestro apoyo. El Major Hogan me envio." Sharpe licked his dry lips and wondered if he'd said the right words.

"What on earth could we have to talk about, my men kill English officers for target practise."

The voice was deep, laconic, amused and very English. Despite hearing the rumour from Hogan that a fellow–countryman commanded here, Sharpe was surprised into an exclamation in the same tongue. "You're not Spanish?"

"My, my, I see they sent an intelligent one — I must be rising in their estimation."

"Major Hogan did say something..."

"But you didn't believe him." The shadowy figure laughed, the sound dry and inescapably bitter. "Well, you should have done."

"I can see that. At least I don't have to try out my Spanish." Sharpe strained to see the expression on the other's face, unsure still if he was safe. "Will you talk with me? We're on the same side, after all."

"Are we?"

"We all hate the French. Surely your men want those bastards out of here as soon as possible."

"Ah, my men want a lot of things, including untold riches and an endless supply of women. Are you going to provide all that in exchange for our goodwill?"

"I doubt if Hogan could supply all that for Wellington himself."

"Maybe not." The distant face appeared to almost smile.

"Look," Sharpe was getting impatient now he knew that there was some hope that all this wasn't in vain. "Let me come up and talk, or come down, it's hard to say anything like this." He was also acutely conscious of the surrounding ring of his opponent's men, the hatred that swept up to him in almost tangible waves. He felt cold, the sun having finally dipped out of sight behind the rooftop. Before long it would be night. Torches were already being lit around the courtyard, though when Sharpe glanced at the sky it was only beginning to darken from pale sapphire to a cobalt streaked with gold and amber.

Above Sharpe, the figure of the Englishman, who by some strange chance had come to lead Spanish bandits, straightened. For a brief moment, Sharpe thought that he was going to move, make his way down into the courtyard, but in the end all he did was to sit sideways on the balcony wall, hands clasped loosely on his thigh. "I'm not sure there is anything else to say. I'm not sure what you could do for us to make up for the loss of killing you. Will you give us guns?"

"Maybe. I'd have to ask."

"I can tell you now what the answer would be — no. And they'd laugh as they said it. Though I'm surprised you didn't just lie — most of your kind would."

"About what?" Sharpe didn't dispute the kind the commander meant, though he would later, if the chance came. If it would help.

"Guns, anything. I've had messengers here before, did they tell you that?" Sharpe couldn't quite keep surprise from his face. "I thought not. I've been promised all manner of things, and never believed a word of it. Sometimes it helps to be English."

"Look, I could try and get guns, if you promise not to fight us, and to help us fight the French."

The man sounded almost sad, "No, I don't think I could promise that." He shook his head. "And you're getting close to telling me untruths, you really shouldn't do that."

"I'm telling the truth. We need you on our side."

"I know. But I don't need to be on yours." He yawned. "And I'm getting very bored. Goodbye Captain Sharpe."

"No? You haven't heard me out. To start with, tell me what should I call you?"

The man tilted his head to one side and considered. "You could call me Philip: not that you'll really need to call me anything at all. As I said — goodbye." He raised his voice and issued what sounded like a string of orders in fast, idiomatic dialect, and almost before he knew what was happening Sharpe had been pulled from his horse, held still by strong, bruising hands as his sword was quickly removed from his waist.

Surrounded by the clamour of unintelligible voices, breathless, filled with anger and acrid shame of the fear that rose up to swamp him as he was grabbed and pushed, Sharpe suddenly let loose a shout and fought. The battle was more then unequal. Alone and desperately outnumbered, there was little he could do to survive, but if he was going to die then it wouldn't be as a coward, it would be as a soldier.

Surprise only gave him a half–minute of advantage; he felt the heel of his hand connect with bone and his boot with flesh, almost smiling as the recipient of the blow cried out. Twisting away, regardless for his own skin, he kicked and butted and clawed, knowing the fine thread of hope survive in the confusion, almost believing he could escape if only he could reach the horse, ride through the crowd, breach the gates, outrun the bullets that would be sent to bring him down. He didn't feel the punches that knocked into him, didn't feel pain. He could see freedom, survival; taste it with the blood in his mouth. He would escape. Would...

It was the last moment of coherent thought he would have for a long time. A blow took him to his knees, senses reeling. Dazed, he watched them come to him, felt their hands lift him off the dirt and that was the end of precise awareness, for the world exploded in a welter of pain.

As night slowly leeched the blue from the sky, they played with him like a pack of rats with a wounded dog. Most of the men stood in a wide circle, to stamp and whistle and shout their approval, or otherwise, of their companions' means and methods. They took it in turns to worry at their prey, beating him one at a time, carefully, enjoying every blow, every drop of spilled blood, cheering if he cried out, laughing all the time; a laughter that would come to haunt his dreams through many a night.

He was their entertainment, and when he showed signs of distraction, they merely poured icy well–water over him, and on it went.

He still fought, bringing more than one man to his knees as they underestimated how worn down he was. Though he always paid, the price taken in pain and humiliation.

Once, in the midst of it all, Sharpe came to a moment of uncanny awareness; held between their filthy hands, waiting in resignation and weariness for the next round, he looked up to see the other Englishman watching him, saw his face clearly for the first time, the strong features limned with torch–light; austere, implacable. Time held still as they took the moment in silence between themselves; victim and victor.

In the flickering light, pushed to his knees on the filthy ground, Sharpe almost let himself hope, quite for what he wasn't sure. He strained to look up, to hold the other man's gaze. But hope died as the tall figure turned suddenly, violently away, leaving him alone with his tormenters; curiously bereft.

As it all began again, Sharpe closed his eyes, suddenly weary beyond any measure. There was no fight left and he let the pain take him, hardly feeling the blow that finally left him vomiting in the dust, or the booted feet that took away the last ragged vestiges of awareness.

* * * * *

The first thought to spin itself out of the fine webs of returning consciousness was amazement that he was alive. The second was to move and to regret the impulse violently. Sharpe groaned, biting back the sound as a hand touched him and, despite himself, he flinched.

"It's all right. I'm really not going to hurt you."

The velvet–rich, sardonic voice belonged to someone he knew, but his mind would tell no more than that one simple fact.

"Don't move."

The voice was wasting words. Despite confusion and no real sense of reality, Sharpe, after the first attempt at movement, was keeping quite still. There was pain, biting pain, if he as much as tried to move his head; less if he kept still. Wherever he was and whatever was happening, any lessening of degree was for the good.

Something cold touched the pain to the side of his forehead and he moved away, the impulse to escape translating to his weakened muscles as a slight turn of the head.

"Por Dios? I told you, keep still, I'm only cleaning a cut."

Who? Sharpe swallowed aridly and opened the one eye that appeared to still function. And couldn't quite believe what he saw.

"Surprised?"

Sharpe tried to agree, but his mouth was too dry.

"I told them not to kill you. You should be thankful that they always obey me."

He was. Though he wasn't sure what confused his thoughts most, that he lived or that the hand cleaning the mess of his face belonged to the renegade Englishman.

Philip.

The name brought back every minute recollection and Sharpe took a deep breath, regretting it instantly.

"Mmm — you've got some deep bruising in your belly, I'd take it easy for a bit if I were you."

Sharpe didn't need to be told. He waited until the darkness behind his eyes stopped flaming with a constellation of stars, then took another breath, one more cautious and careful and less likely to rip him apart.

"Why are you doing this?" He almost didn't recognise his own voice, but struggled on. "Why aren't I dead?"

"Un capricio."

Sharpe would have laughed if there had been energy or will left to do it. "Bloody hell, a whim?"

"And I thought you might be more use to me alive than dead."

Narrowing his eyes against the light from a lamp that stood on the floor, Sharpe fought the fog filling his head. He was lying on what appeared to be a bed in a stone–walled room. There was no–one else present but the two of them. Filtering through the open casement came the sound of plaintive singing accompanied by some sort of guitar.

"Would you like some water?"

"Ay, more than anything."

"More than your freedom?" The tone was curious, untinged with malice, though shadowed by very slight amusement.

Sharpe looked his captor in the eye. "No. But I don't suppose that's on offer."

The look held, then something stirring in the depths of the dark eyes made Sharpe glance away.

Philip shrugged, the movement a slight shifting of his wide shoulders. "How true. But water is, come on, sit up."

A strong arm was slipped around his shoulders and helped him to sit up against the pillows. Sharpe was sweating, when it was over.

The Englishman was scrutinising him.

"I'm all right."

"I'm sure."

For some reason the laconic agreement made Sharpe flinch.

"Drink this."

Sharpe reached for the cup but in the end a large, steady hand had to help him. After a few mouthfuls he fell back, unconcerned as he was once again laid flat, gasping for breath. Water had trickled from his mouth to his chest and for the first time he realised that under the thin sheet he was naked.

"Now keep still." The cold cloth returned to clean his face. Sharpe obeyed, slight nausea holding him as much as the order. He concentrated on pushing away the shadows that were threatening to blank out the room. And succeeded, though he was filmed in sweat by the time the bloody cloth was thrown into a bowl of equally fouled water.

"There, you'll do."

"I suppose you want me to say thank you." Shivering, suddenly very cold, Sharpe was dimly aware of disgust at the weakness in his own voice. "But if it were you, lying here, would you?"

Philip shook his head, "Probably not." Then he smiled. "Go to sleep."

That order Sharpe had no problem obeying, aware at the last moment of a warm blanket being tossed over his bed.

* * * * *

When he awoke again, daylight was flooding the room. Somehow he got both feet on the floor and was upright, managing the few paces to the unglazed window, holding on tight to the sill, keeping there by sheer determination.

The room overlooked the central courtyard, though unlike those on the lower levels it had no balcony. Sharpe looked down, judged the distance and knew this was not the way out. He was high up, in the second floor of the old building, as far up as was probably habitable, judging from the state of the roof opposite. In the wide central area people went about their tasks. There were men and women, even a handful of children chasing each other through a colonnade. Some sort of climbing plant made its delicate way up the stone wall, but it didn't reach the window Sharpe stared out of, and even if it had he doubted it would have taken his weight.

Turning away from the cheerless view he went and tried the door. Locked. Though that came as no surprise. There was no surprise either in the fact that a guard was posted there, Sharpe could hear the sound of his boots on stone as he turned.

One arm tight around his belly, feeling as bent as an old man, Sharpe made his way around the room. Apart from the bed with its blood and grime soiled sheets, pitcher of water and an ancient bucket, there was nothing; just crumbling stone and flaking lime–wash, dust, spiders–webs old enough to fall rotting from the corners and the bright sunlight. Nothing except a pair of thin cotton breeches that he awkwardly and painfully pulled on over his nakedness.

He sat down on the bed feeling slightly better to be covered. And the door opened.

The man called Philip walked into the room and said something in fluid Spanish to a guard outside, then closed the door.

"You look better."

"Thanks. I feel bloody marvellous." Sharpe glared at the tall figure of his captor, daring disagreement. He straightened, be–damned to the pain in his gut. "Though I'd feel better in my uniform."

"I believe your trousers are around somewhere, but your jacket is no longer here."

"Where is it?" asked Sharpe in alarm. The jacket was more than a comfortable old item of clothing, it was his luck; the battered green fabric a charm against all ills.

"You'll get it back." There was amusement in the dark voice, though its owner seemed hardly to be paying attention to anything but the moment, his long, sombre face, with its deep–set eyes and imperious nose, intent on his prisoner.

Sharpe shifted under the direct scrutiny, uncomfortably aware of how battered he was. The feeling distracted him entirely from the matter of his jacket.

"Mmm, that eye's already healing well." A large hand reached out to take Sharpe's chin.

"I told you, I'm just fine." He batted the hand away, suddenly distinctly wary of contact. "What are you, some sort of sawbones?"

"I am many things, I've learnt to be through necessity." Philip gave the same, slight shrug of indifference and walked slowly over to the window. He held himself with ease, moving with a controlled fluidity unusual in such a big–boned man. Sharpe watched him warily.

"Are you going to let me go?"

The man at the window turned and his face was shadowed. "That depends."

"On what."

"On your General Wellington."

"On him?" Sharpe gave a short, unimpressed snort of laughter. "I'll be here till doomsday then, if it's ransom you're after."

"Not as such." The strange bandit leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows. He was dressed in riding clothes, from the tall boots to the fitted coat all black, all almost clerical in the severity of cut and lack of ostentation. Only his shirt and cravat were white and in the sunlight they shone like a band of quicksilver around his neck. "I'm promising him what he wants — along with you — in exchange for a few guns."

"He'll laugh in your face." Sharpe thought for a moment. "And who've you sent, anyway?"

"Your man, the one you left at Maura, a Sergeant Harper I believe."

Sharpe spoke with quick concern clear in his voice. "Is he all right?"

"If you mean did we hurt him, then the answer is no. Though I had to bring him here and show him you to prove that you were still alive. He didn't like it much but he saw sense in the end. He took your jacket. Seemed to think it was important. Shame you missed him really — he's only just left."

"Are you sure he was all right?"

"Oh, I'm positive, I've given orders that he's to be seen back almost to your lines. And he understood quite clearly that I meant what I said."

"That you'd kill me if you didn't get the guns?"

"Yes."

Sharpe ran a hand through his matted hair and winced, as much at the impossibility of Wellington agreeing to such demands as the pain he'd unwittingly inflicted on himself. "Is that why you didn't let them kill me?"

"Part of it."

Sharpe ignored the ambiguous comment. "I'd be happier if you'd stopped your men from using me for their sport as well."

"It did them good."

Sharpe blinked, then shook his head, not sure if he was capable of laughing. He answered dryly, "Glad I could be of service."

"How is it?"

"I feel as if I'd been well beaten. Strange, wouldn't you say?"

"I did tell them not to kill you."

"I wish I'd known it at the time."

The dark eyes were suddenly sharply curious. "Would that have made it any easier?"

"Damn right it would."

"So you fear death."

"Any man in his right mind does. Don't you?"

Philip half turned, idly fingering a jagged crack in the stone wall. "No, I don't think I do."

Sharpe gave a short, explosive laugh. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I'm not sure I expect you to believe anything." He turned with studied grace and took the few steps to stand in front of where Sharpe sat. He stared down and all at once there was no moisture in Sharpe's mouth. The captive straightened slightly but couldn't for all the world have looked away as the even voice spoke. "But I do not fear anything."

Sharpe tried the laugh again, but it came out cracked with disbelief. "Everybody fears something."

"I do not believe I am everybody."

"Who are you?" Sharpe could see freckles dusting under the pale tan of the severe face. He could see deep into eyes the exact colour of cinnamon. There were aristocratic bones, smooth skin lined deeply around the eyes. He didn't think they were lines made by laughter.

The man canted his head and a lock of hair fell towards one eye. His lips twisted, whether in bitterness or amusement it was impossible to tell. "I am James Philip Glebe Carlyle, fourth Lord Ashcombe. Though in truth I don't use the title much."

Sharpe had to close his jaw on the amazement before he could speak. "And you're here, leading that murderous bunch out there against us?"

"Patriotism never was my strong point."

"But you're killing your own people?" With an effort Sharpe stood up, bringing his uncomprehending anger closer to its object.

"People who have done nothing for me."

"What've my soldiers done to hurt you, you over–privileged bastard? Nothing." He had to look slightly up to meet the sardonic gaze.

"They are English, that's enough."

Without thinking, Sharpe lashed out with a closed fist. But he was, despite the anger, slow. The blow fell on thin air and pain exploded in his side, making him cry out as he fell twisting to the floor.

Arms cradling his ribs, darkness flashing at the edges of his vision he felt himself lifted by arms that seemed to make nothing of his weight, and laid on the bed. Firm hands made him straighten.

"Keep still, I'm trying to see what the damage is."

"Jesus..."

The long fingers must be trying to burrow through his skin. He cursed and tried to hit out, but was held still by surprising strength.

"Stop fighting, damn you?"

Sharpe opened his eyes and held still, though he could hear the harshness of his own breathing loud in the quiet room.

"That's better." The hands released his arms and went back to the wide swathe of bruising that had blossomed darkly on the pale skin. They were gentle, feeling across bone and muscle, testing each rib that moved slightly as Sharpe fought to breath shallowly despite breathlessness. After a moment he nodded. "Nothing broken." He stood straight, staring down with an unreadable expression on his face. "You shouldn't have made me hit you."

"Too right, I shouldn't." Sharpe was very pale, a faint tinge of green around his eyes. There was sweat dripping down his cheek, darkening his hair. He was very wary.

"Honours even?"

"Ay." In was muttered ungraciously but it was an assent.

Carlyle's eyes narrowed as he took in the battered state of the supine man. Sharpe held still, but the long look made him uncomfortable, totally aware of his state of undress, of the threadbare fabric of the breeches he wore.

"How did you come by the scars on your back?"

"None of your bloody business."

The same shrug repeated itself. "As you will." And without another word Carlyle turned on his heel, coat–tails billowing around him. He knocked to be let out, pausing only once before leaving. He almost said something, but in the end all his mouth did was twist derisively, though of the two of them who the derision was aimed at was impossible to tell.

* * * * *

Sharpe was left alone for the rest of the day. The hours dragged and he spent the time alternately worrying about Harper, or at least what the mad Irishman would try when Wellington told him that there were no muskets, and planning how to escape. True, he slept a lot of the time, lying in the thin–matressed bed, wrapped in the rough, grey wool blankets for warmth; for despite the heat outside, the large, stone–walled room felt cold to his body. Fever–dreams danced through what sleep he found and sat in his mind like ghosts when he was wakeful. He knew he was far from well.

The day still seemed to take forever to get to nightfall. Eventually the strange oblong of blue sky that he could see from his prison turned pale, scarred with orange and dull red, changed and finally darkened. For an hour he leaned wearily out of the casement, watching. Just watching. Watching the darkness brighten as lamps were lit, calculating distances, counting men. Planning. For there had to be a way out and night seemed the best time to try.

Not that for the life of him he could see how.

The window was too high to jump from, and there were no holds in the wall that anything other than a fly could have climbed down. The door was firmly locked. Short of kicking the door down and fighting to freedom there was no way and, as he had trouble standing up at anything other than a snail's pace, such a feat seemed unlikely.

With a sound of frustration, Sharpe turned from the window and sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Harper walked through his thoughts until a shiver skidded across his skin. Big, strong, brave Harper. The best friend a man could have. They would have died for each other, had proved that countless times. Died and worse. For any soldier knew that a quick bullet to eternity was the easiest way to go.

No, Harper had saved Sharpe's life, cleaned his wounds, listened, been there. Been the best lover Sharpe had ever known. He had taught Sharpe many lessons, not least of which that it was possible to have tenderness between two men, that it didn't have to be fast and brutal, a battle to inflict pain along with release.

In the growing shadows, Sharpe smiled at the thought, for Harper could in fact be brutal when needed. And he always seemed to know exactly what was needed and when. Though now he was as near married as made no difference, perhaps all that would change. Not that they had ever managed anything apart from when alone. It was too risky showing exactly what they had for each other when too close to camp. Neither of them fancied being hung. Instead they'd taken advantage of the relative freedom Hogan allowed them and found moments of companionship in the hills, trusting in their senses to know where was safe and where wasn't.

On cold nights it was better than sleeping alone. On warm ones too.

He hoped Harper wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything by way of a rescue. And, for some reason he wasn't quite sure of, he hoped that Harper and the English lord never had further occasion to meet.

Philip, Lord Ashcombe. Or so he claimed. Not that there was any reason to doubt it, and the man had all the manner that only being brought up to consider the rest of the world beneath you could endow. But what in heaven's name was he doing here?

Sharpe didn't have to answer that thought. The key turned loudly in the lock and as the door swung back, light from a lamp flooded the room. Temporarily blinded, Sharpe held a hand to his eyes and peered up warily, expecting to see Carlyle; half wanting, half afraid.

But it turned out to be only two guards, one with a rifle and the other with a tray of food. They said nothing, not even when Sharpe spoke to them, just put the tray down and left without so much as acknowledging the presence of the prisoner. The door was locked firmly in their wake.

And they took the lamp with them.

In sudden darkness Sharpe climbed to his feet and stumbling across the floor banged loudly on the door, shouting. It did no good at all, he might as well have been shouting at the walls for they didn't re–open the door.

After a moment, Sharpe cautiously made his way back to the bed. There, in the gloom he cursed, sitting in angry silence until with a jolt he realised that it wasn't as dark as he'd first thought. The moon must have risen, for there was just enough light crawling into the chamber for him to make out more than just solid shapes. Going over to the window he peered up at the sky. There were stars, and the night was a silvered darkness that meant the moon was indeed making her way across the skies, not that he could see her yet. It was cooler and he shivered slightly, the chill air raising goose–bumps on his naked skin.

It was a fine night. A night full of the scent of the flowering vine that climbed over the old stones, of the earthier smells of cooking, of the heat–baked stones themselves. He should have been back behind the safety of the English lines, watching his riflemen laughing at some joke of Harris', listening to Hagman sing some filthy song, wondering what God–awful task Hogan would dream up for them next.

Instead he was a prisoner. With no Harper to keep him company. No Harper to banish the ghosts with the sure touch of his hands.

Without asking the image came to his mind of Carlyle: Carlyle lying where Harper was so at home. He shook his head, wanting to deny the prickling awareness that there was between them. To deny the attraction.

For without doubt attraction it was.

Cursing under his breath, knowing himself for a fool, Sharpe pushed the thought aside and turning, went to fill the simpler hunger that suddenly rumbled in his belly.

* * * * *

"Yes, sir. I know that, sir." Harper stood at attention, his attitude all regimental obedience, his voice entirely obstinate. "But they'll kill him."

"And you say Captain Sharpe was alive when you last saw him?" Seated behind his campaign desk, a creased map of the Peninsular spread before him, Wellington was clearly trying not to appear as if he wished the opposite were true.

"Yes, sir. They'd beaten the daylights out of him, but he was breathing." Just. And anything might have happened to him since. By self–control alone, Harper held still, quelling the need to be off and at the Spanish bastards.

"I see." Wellington sighed. "And this person, this...Englishman you say?"

"Yes, sir. He was that." Harper looked straight ahead, blithely ignoring the Peer's beady–eyed look.

"Indeed. Well, this Englishman wants three hundred muskets in exchange for our one captain."

"That's the way of it, sir."

"Sergeant, did you see how many men he had?" This from Hogan who lounged at his ease on a corner of the desk, his square, farmer's hands idly toying with a gold Spanish coin.

Harper resigned himself to a third repetition of the events. "No, sir. About ten men ambushed me at the village and the first thing they did was wrap a rag about my eyes so I couldn't see anything at all. All I saw was the room where they kept the captain." He considered. "But the fortress was big, and it didn't sound empty, if you know what I mean, sir. On the way back I was escorted as far as Molinos and came on the rest of the way alone." Alone and driven by a dreadful sense of urgency. An urgency he couldn't seem to impart to his superiors. "They told me what they wanted, they showed me he was still alive, and that was that." He took a deep breath. "So, when can I be starting out with the muskets, sir?"

At the same time as Wellington made a neutral noise in his throat, Hogan said, "Well, it's not as if we've got guns to give away."

"But he'll kill him? Sir...?"

"Maybe." Wellington raised an eyebrow aimed at Hogan. "Or maybe he's just trying a bluff."

"He isn't. I can promise you that, sir." It was Harper who answered, though when he looked at Hogan he read acknowledgment of that truth there, though how Hogan should know the Englishman so well was another mystery. But Harper remembered the dim room where Sharpe lay, his battered body covered by a thin blanket. On being released from the blindfold, Harper had been convinced the captain was dead. It hadn't been the best time of his life. Especially when one of the guards had proved a point by hitting the unconscious figure. Not nice at all. Or reassuring. Harper closed his eyes briefly, then opened them direct into Wellington's. "Sir, I really don't think he makes empty promises. He seemed deadly serious to me."

"And deadly to Sharpe. Unless we do something." Hogan flipped the coin from one hand to the other, as if debating with himself. He cautiously eyed his commander. "I suppose we might try offering a smaller quantity of arms, sir. As long as he promises not to use them on us, of course." He almost smiled. "And you'd go back and do a spot of negotiating, wouldn't you, Harper?"

"Whenever you want, sir."

Wellington frowned at his intelligence officer. "Hogan, this entire affair has been a bloody awful mess."

"I was thinking just that myself, sir."

"But I suppose we can't afford to loose that protege of yours?"

"And there I was thinking he was yours, sir. It was you raised him up from the ranks."

Wellington could almost be heard to grind his teeth.

"A wise move, considering how useful he's been since." Hogan smiled benignly into the silence.

"Oh, all right." Wellington sat back with a gusting sigh. "Try and get away with parting with as little as possible."

"Of course, sir. We wouldn't dream of doing anything else, would we sergeant?"

"Never, sir." Slightly out of his depth, Harper none the less knew when to agree.

"Well, off you go. Sort it out and let me know when Sharpe's back. He'll owe me more than gratitude, by Jove."

The two Irishmen exchanged a glance, but said nothing, leaving the Peer to his plans.

* * * * *

The next morning Sharpe was woken by the arrival of the same taciturn guards. They took away the remains of his dinner tray and left behind a jug of water and a plate of what turned out to be fresh baked rolls: a simplicity very welcome after the previous night's plate of cold, garlic–laden mutton stew. Sharpe had forced a few spoonfuls of the greasy mess down, then given in, pushing the rest to one side as his stomach complained noisily about what he had eaten.

His sleep had been even less easy than the meal. Unable to rest properly he had dozed, shivering with cold while his bones protested and his muscles ached. Once, falling into a deeper sleep, he had dreamed a catalogue of nightmares, a collection of pain that had him sitting up fast, cold sweat dripping down his heaving chest. For a long moment he'd thought the scream that echoed in his mind might have been real, but no one came to the door and with a ragged sigh he'd lain back, relieved that the sound that had torn the obscene dream apart had not in fact left his throat.

That had been close to dawn. For the rest of the night he'd watched the lightening shadows, listening for the first stirring of the birds, the first sounds of the women rising to make breakfast. Only then had he slept, this time deeply and well, though for not nearly long enough.

Sitting up against the wall he munched his way through the bread, the blankets loosely wrapped over his legs. For the first time since the beating he felt warm. More than that he felt the beginnings of health restoring itself; the abuse his body had taken finally beginning to fade.

It was about time too.

Sharpe ran a hand down his body, wincing occasionally as fingers probed too deeply or touched too soon. But it was all greatly improved. Maybe even improved enough to permit an escape. He drank some water and considered the possibility of climbing down the wall and then somehow getting out of the gates. Pushing the blankets back he walked over to the window and peered down the sheer two–storey drop to the ground. His belly cramped at the very thought and he held it comfortingly. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea after all.

It did seem as if the only hope lay in Wellington suddenly proving he was human and ransoming one of his officers with guns. Money or an exchange of prisoners wouldn't have been a problem, but rifles...

Sharpe decided he didn't want to think about it.

Instead, he turned about and leaning on the wall surveyed his room. The four walls held little chance of entertainment. Low–ceilinged, large enough to billet near to ten men, it was a comfortable sort of prison. Better than many Sharpe had experienced. It still had at least one thing in common with the vilest dungeon; it was very boring.

Accustomed to be up and out and doing, Sharpe found being locked up very hard. But there were no options left to him, so for the rest of that day he alternately paced the dusty floor, gazed out of the window with the fine lines of a frown creasing his brow or lay on the bed disconsolately counting the cracks that veined like dusty ore across the plastered ceiling.

Throughout the day the courtyard had been a hive of activity. Carlyle's men had unpacked a mule–convoy of supplies which included a large amount of wine–casks, the arrival of which had sent cheers echoing through the building's old stones. More and more men seemed to arrive as the day progressed until Sharpe began to wonder if Carlyle was heading not just a band of cut–throats but a small army.

Only once had Sharpe seen the person his eyes were unconsciously searching for. Early in the day, long before the arrival of the pack–mules, he'd been staring blindly from his eerie, gauging the distance to freedom when the tall, unmistakeable figure had emerged from a door at the end of the right–hand colonnade. Without haste or awareness Carlyle had walked to the standing pump at the side of the square and stripping off coat, cravat and shirt, had soused himself under what could only have been ice–cold water.

But what had caught Sharpe's attention, making him catch his breath in a moment of shock was when Carlyle had straightened, turning away to towel the water off his face and chest. The long, broad back was scarred with the marks of a beating; silver weals in regimented order running down the line of ribs and disappearing beneath the black breeches.

Sharpe had closed his eyes and unconsciously his hand was at his own back, feeling, remembering. Against his reaching fingers the skin was a maze of raised lines that he knew had faded to silver and white. He'd seen the backs of enough flogged men to know exactly what a sight his own flesh must be, how starkly haphazard the scarring. The marks on Carlyle's back were very different; obscene in the calculated way the whip must have been applied.

In a way it at least explained Carlyle's strange interest in his captive's back.

Sharpe let his hand fall to his side, his eyes strangely distant, their usual dull–green leached to grey, as far below the other Englishman shrugged back into his shirt.

His own beating had been both painful and humiliating. Years ago, when he was still an ordinary soldier, the flogging had been given on the orders of two men who hated him, men who had trumped up charges and had him punished for a crime he hadn't committed. And even though it had been years ago he still woke on occasions with the searing pain echoing through his nerves, and his mouth stretched wide, screaming.

With a shiver that recalled him to the present, he had stepped away from the sunlight and the memories, returning to lie on the bed, his mind carefully clear of anything at all.

The day did eventually end. But instead of the routine of food and then bed of the previous evening, the fortress seemed, with the onset of dusk, to come alive.

In the wide courtyard were gathered what must have been all Carlyle's men. The wide area was brightly lit, a bonfire in the centre shedding further light as well as serving as a means for spit–roasting a couple of pigs. The wine–casks from the earlier consignment had been broached and the noise from the men along with their few women seemed to Sharpe as though there must be a thousand of them rather than just the hundred or so he knew were there. It was clearly going to be a long night.

As the moon rose and the night deepened the noise only grew louder: laughter and shouting calls in the local dialect reaching into the sky. Staring down at them, Sharpe longed bitterly for freedom. His own men enjoyed themselves in much the same way. He should have been in camp with them, not here.

He leant his weight on both hands, feeling the rough stone cold under his palms. The scene below him was a vision, of hell or heaven would depend only on the philosophy of the viewer. To Sharpe, despite the brightly flaming torches and the dark, blood–red embers of the fire, it was certainly nowhere near hell.

Some of the bandits stood against the walls, but most sat in groups, marking a wide circle around the fire, talking, eating. One man was mending some item of clothing, another carved at a piece of bone. The women served the food and flirted; in their home–dyed flounces they were like bright moths flitting amongst the darker, ragged clothes of the men. By the time the spitted pigs had been carved down to bone most of the women had disappeared, paired up; the promise in their dark eyes taking loneliness away for another night.

Sharpe laughed to himself at the hunger the realisation inspired, but it was only fleeting, and the succulent smell of the roasting pork was far harder to bear than the fleeting need to bed any of these whores, pox–ridden as they undoubtedly were.

His stomach rumbled loudly. He growled at it to be quiet; it didn't seem likely that any of the men would remember to feed the prisoner, they were having far too good a time to climb all the way up here for so little reason. Of course it wasn't impossible that some of them would remember the captive and want more of the entertainment that he had offered the first night. From where he stood, Sharpe could recognise some of the men who had taken such pains in beating him. There was one in particular whose fingers had left their mark clearly on his body and who had enjoyed it all with obscene delight. All in all, Sharpe decided he was quite happy to go hungry.

Suddenly, the shouting ceased, and in the disconcertingly loud silence came the pooling sound of a single guitar, the sweet, true, plaintive notes sending a shiver through the fine hairs across Sharpe's body. The music twisted and turned, weaving a pattern out of the darkness until it was joined by another guitar and then another.

Sharpe watched them, a disparate trio of musicians, each curled intently over their instrument, crimson and ochre light from the fire catching on the flash of quick fingers as they played, on their faces, young and old. From one of the groups of listening men, a gypsy–dark figure stood and began to sing, the sound unearthly, a distillation of sorrow and loss that caught itself in Sharpe's gut and pulled there as if hooked into his flesh.

He shivered, totally spellbound by the arrow–sound that ululated through the night air.

Abruptly, just as suddenly as the singing had commenced, it ended. There was a long suspended moment of silence then the arena of men all began to clap and whistle their appreciation. The man who had sung bowed, then sat down and the music began again.

It went on for a long time. Some sang alone, others to the accompaniment of the guitars or their own percussive clapping. The music ran like a thread through it all, loud or soft, strong or soft, beating out a feral time for when two of the men danced. Hardly shifting from where he stood, Sharpe watched and listened, though none of it quite compared to the singularity of that first singer.

Hours later many of the men were very drunk, some fought in a desultory way, others curled and slept where they found the room. Sharpe had finally abandoned his post and lain down on the bed, only to be dragged back again when the sounds changed, his curiosity too sharp and the noise too much to let him sleep. Down in the courtyard the guitars were still loud, but the tempo had changed. Now it was more intense, deepened by the sound of a hundred hands beating the rhythm out into the darkness. The faces were all intent, the scene somehow no longer light–hearted.

Sharpe wanted a drink. He watched the flasks and skins of wine being handed around and licked his lips. About to turn and hunt out the water that would have to do he stopped, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard as if a tether was being reeled in. There, from the shadows where he had stood unseen, Carlyle was walking through the clusters of his men to stand in the circle of light, raising his hands for silence.

But instead of speaking, a single guitar began to pick out a meandering melody, its voice gradually answered by the other two instruments. The sound was sadness distilled. From his eyrie Sharpe watched and felt the fine hairs on his arms lift in response as the music crystallised its pain to the sky.

All the while the still figure of Carlyle held the focus of every eye. Straight and arrogant he turned once, gesturing to the same man who had all those hours ago started the singing. Immediately his voice was raised to join the suddenly insistent, primitive rhythm of the instruments.

And then Carlyle moved.

It was like nothing Sharpe had ever seen. The tall, lithe figure twisted slowly in the fire–light, raised its hands up to heaven and began.

The dance was entirely male. With curve of spine and imperious hands that wove mystery from the shadows it spoke of pride and longing, of death and pain. The dancer hardly moved from the one space: turning on his heel; beating the stones with his booted heels; shirt unbuttoned, folds flashing white and dark as he twisted; the flat planes of belly and chest fleeting in movement, pale even against the bleached cotton of his shirt. With every weaving turn of the blade of movement he conjured magic, a coruscating spell that wiped out everything but awareness of himself and the muscle and sinew, bone and flesh of his body. Faster it went, sweat now clinging the fabric of his clothes to his skin, long hair unbound, damply lining his face.

Scarcely breathing, suspended a universe away from reality, Sharpe watched. Time, self, sanity, all woven into the music by the dancer who held it all in the taut line of his body.

Then, in a pool of silence it was over. All the energy was curbed, the violence contained, and Carlyle was standing quite still. Suddenly, he turned and looked up. Deaf to the cheers that were suddenly engulfing the night, to the sound of feet stamping the ground, Sharpe stared down and met the dark hooded eyes. He backed away, breaking the contact, a dark flush staining his skin.

Almost stumbling to the bed he sat down, curving his fingers into his hair. It was a long time before he moved.

There was nothing but silence floating in the window when Sharpe finally stirred. He rose and, with a sigh, crossed to the window and stared out into the darkness.

He was standing there when the key turned in the lock, the sound as shocking as a rifle shot. Unsure of why he was doing so, Sharpe backed away into the far corner of the room.

It was Carlyle. He stood in the doorway, lamp in one hand, bottle of wine in the other. After a moment he stepped through and one of the guards locked the door behind him.

"Hello. I thought you might be thirsty."

Sharpe stayed where he was.

A smile made its way across the sardonic features then vanished. He put the lamp down on the floor and leant back against the door, tilting his head to look down his nose at his captive. "Was I wrong?"

"No."

"I thought as much." He didn't move away from the door. When he spoke, his voice was rich and dark as midnight. "I saw you watching. Did you enjoy the spectacle?"

"Your dancing?"

"What else." He gave a small shrug and offered no modesty.

Sharpe shook his head with a quick negative. "Where did you learn?"

"Here. The Spanish love to make music, they love to dance." He shrugged his shoulders against the wood.

"And they don't bother with the minuet or the polonaise?"

"Oh, I expect in Madrid they do, but not here." Carlyle pushed himself away from the door. "They make good wine however. Here." He held out the bottle. "Drink. This isn't wine though, and I've had plenty."

Sharpe knew that. Carlyle was more relaxed, looser than he'd been since they'd met. Not that he was anywhere near drunk, and the hand that held out the bottle was steady, fingers tanned a pale gold by the sun easy around the dark green glass. Sharpe hesitated, then took a step forward, reaching out. Carlyle's fingers brushed against his as the bottle was handed over, the warmth of the other man's skin flaring against his own, more chilled, hand. He dared a quick look into unreadable eyes. "Thank you."

"A pleasure." Carlyle performed an elaborate bow.

Sharpe nodded awkwardly, then took a long drink from the bottle. It was brandy. Instantly warmth spread throughout his limbs, the alcohol immediately telling. He took a deep breath and wiped the back of an arm across his mouth. When he spoke his voice was slightly hoarse. "That's good stuff."

"I told you." Carlyle waved a magnanimous hand. "Drink what you want." And he turned away, only to settle himself in a casual sprawl across Sharpe's bed, his shoulders propped against the wall. He looked around the room, taking in the damp–peeled walls and the dust and dirt that banked the skirting. About to say something, he stopped. Then he shrugged again. "Did you enjoy the celebratory meal."

"What were you celebrating?" Sharpe didn't bother to mention that he hadn't in fact enjoyed any of the meal, celebratory or not. It didn't somehow seem worth the while.

"Another resounding victory against the French." Carlyle slowly smiled his cat's smile. "And we're incidentally a box of gold richer."

"The French pay–chest?"

"Indeed." The sigh accompanying the words was of total satisfaction in a job well done.

"Better than ours." Sharpe said sourly.

"You mean the English."

"I stand corrected." It was Sharpe's turn to bow, though his was the merest sketch. "But for all that you're still English." Sharpe stood at the end of the bed and looked down, a slight smile curving the edges of his mouth. "As English as I am." Carlyle hadn't put on a jacket, the rise and fall of his chest was clearly visible beneath the thin shirt, as were the darker aureole of his nipples, their shading drawing Sharpe's gaze.

"I'm as English as I want to be. Which is not at all."

Sharpe cleared his throat. "Is that something to do with the marks on your back?"

In silence Carlyle sat forward, his face a mask, every muscle set. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he relaxed back, hooded eyes deceptively lazy. "So, you spent more time today watching out of your window."

"There wasn't much else to do."

"I suppose not." Carlyle toyed with a corner of the blanket, then he met the enquiring eyes. "It was part of it."

"Whoever did it was a right vicious bastard."

"That, was my dear and much esteemed father." Bitterness dripped from the words.

"Your father?"

"Mmm. A parental cure for what he saw as a rotten son."

"Bloody hell? I've seen kids thrashed but never like that."

"I was seventeen. He had the footmen tie me to the end of his bed and then he beat me with a hunting whip until I passed out. He probably thought — wished — I was dead. I've never set eyes on him since. As soon as I was able I left. I only wish I'd had the strength to kill the old bastard." Carlyle returned from his own vision of hell. "Or at least given him back a bit of his own medicine."

"Did you deserve it?"

"Did you deserve the beating that scarred your back?"

"No." Sharpe shook his head. Awkwardly aware of the bottle in his hands, he took a long drink then set it down on the floor. "But some soldiers do. It's different, it's law. Not like a father doing something like that to his own flesh and blood." He shivered.

"Tell me honestly, was it bad?"

Sharpe met the dark gaze and saw his own secrets there. "Ay. Worse than I could ever have dreamed." He couldn't look any more, couldn't let the other man see. Yet still he spoke. "I had to watch a friend flogged not long ago. I sat with him all night and tried to tell him what to expect, because I'd always thought that knowing would have helped, but I couldn't get the words right."

"Words weren't created to describe it."

Sharpe shivered, rubbing his free hand over his other arm, then sat himself on the end of the bed. "No. And I try not to think about it much either."

"It's a shame whoever did it ruined your back."

Sharpe gave a breathy, half–amused laugh, astonishment letting surprising vulnerability fleetingly pass over his face. "I've got too many scars for that to worry me."

The laugh broke as Carlyle reached forward and ran a slow finger down the flawed skin.

Sharpe didn't move. Torn between wanting more and needing less he stayed where he was, and incoherently prayed that Carlyle wanted nothing more than a strange exchange of battle–honours. He stared at the wall and tried not to shiver as sure fingers explored the apparently so fascinating marks. And failed.

"Are you cold?"

Sharpe gave a wry laugh. "Not as you'd notice."

"Ah."

Turning, Sharpe faced the other man, seeing the strong boned face close–to for the first time, seeing the faint lines that hemmed the fine, almond eyes, the strong, arrogant nose and the clean lines of jaw and throat. A pulse was beating quite steadily, half hidden by the gaping shirt. If he had reached out Sharpe could have touched it, felt the warmth that he was drawn to, the underlying strength of bone, the covering velvet of skin, the life beating, trapped under his fingertips.

Instead, he did nothing. Just waited, with breath tangling in his throat, to shiver again as the same hand ran its way up his arm and touched his cheek.

Like statues they sat in the lamp–light, held by a suspension of time. The shadows cast around them were quite still, the air barely disturbed by their breath.

After a long sigh, Carlyle touched the ragged strands of hair, letting them fall through the valleys of his fingers, wondering if it might have been lighter than his own. "Why do you think my father considered me such a bad lot?"

The question startled Sharpe. He blinked and shook his head. "Christ knows, I thought young lords could get up to whatever they wanted."

"I suppose some can. But my father was a deeply religious man." He didn't elaborate, as if that simple statement explained it all.

Which in a way it did.

"Was it a stable boy?"

Carlyle shook his head. "One of his friends."

"Bloody hell?"

"Mmm. He caught us in bed, I was arse up and ready. There was no mistaking what we were up to."

The coarse image was all too real. "Lucky he didn't kill you. What happened to the friend?"

"Said I'd seduced him. Which I hadn't." The hand dropped to Sharpe's shoulder.

In the silence, Sharpe could hear both their breath, see the faint reflection of himself in the steady, arrogant stare. "Is it what you're doing now?" Sharpe narrowed his eyes, heat lighting their depths. "Seducing me?"

The hand dropped away as if burned. But Carlyle didn't move away. "And if I was?"

"I don't know." Sharpe could have bellowed in laughter at the lie. He knew exactly what he wanted. Every inch of his skin was alive with the presence of the other man; his nearness, the sweet, heady scent of the sweat that had cooled on his body.

"Are you and your sergeant lovers?"

Taken by surprise, Sharpe answered without guile. "Sometimes."

"Do you love him?"

Sharpe shifted uneasily under the questioning. "What's love?"

"What indeed." Carlyle lay back, his eyes full of shadows, apparently watching the tense lines of his captive's body.

"I've thought myself in love. I've never been right."

Carlyle slid his hands under his head and looked up at the ceiling. "And I've never even imagined it. I've often wondered though."

"Seems like a load of heart–ache if you ask me." Not that it was love he wanted. Not tonight.

"Mmm." Carlyle seemed to consider, then he sat forward again.

Their faces were very close, the light catching brightness in their hair, in the cotton of Carlyle's shirt, in the film of sweat that clung to his skin. Hesitantly he reached out and touched Sharpe again, curving his fingers around the defined line of his jaw, brushing against ear and throat.

Carlyle's dark eyes were carefully clear of expression, the only inescapable evidence of his excitement the erratic beat of the pulse at his throat. "Why do I want you?"

Sharpe couldn't frame an answer. "I don't know." He could hardly speak, let alone reason.

"I could bed with you as easily as eat a fine meal, or drink a bottle of the finest claret. It is fifteen years since I last laid with one of my own sex and yet I could forget every lesson I've ever learned just to possess you. Why?" The fingers tightened until Sharpe winced and moved away from the pain.

"I don't know." He rubbed at his jaw, feeling fresh bruises. "But I feel it too. Sometimes it's just, well, right. I don't know." He gave up in confusion.

"Is this right?"

Sharpe was given no chance to reply for his head was turned and a knowing mouth covered his own, nudging at his lips until he gave up on bewilderment and opened himself to the gentle assault.

Carlyle pulled away, his eyes dark and wide, his lips still parted from the kiss, damp from it. "Tell me, can this be right?" He was whispering, all pretention to studied languor gone from the ragged words.

"Why should it be wrong?" Having tasted his desire, Sharpe wasn't going to let it escape. He twisted and reached for the warmth that had held him.

This time the large hands were brutal. They held their captive in check, cupping his face, eyes blazing. Then without answering, without another word Carlyle was on his feet, banging hard on the door to be released.

* * * * *

Wellington raised an interrogatory brow as Hogan stooped to enter the large campaign tent. He threw down the pen with which he had been writing and waited until Hogan was standing in front of the wide mahogany desk. "Well?"

"He's gone, sir."

"Will that bandit leader accept the offer, do you think?"

Hogan shrugged, picked a clear crystal paper–weight off the desk and inspected it before answering. "Well, I don't appear to have the sight, sir, but I'd say it was quite likely."

"What do you know that you aren't telling me, Hogan?"

Hogan blinked, and half–smiled. The Peer was always uncommonly perspicacious. The trick was in knowing how much was bluff and how much true perception. "I think we can rely on the muskets being enough."

Wellington frowned, peering at his Intelligence Officer as a lepidopterist might a rare moth. "So you do know more than you said."

"I didn't want to say anything in front of Harper."

"Fine. I presume you can say whatever it is in front of me?"

Hogan raised astounded eyes to meet piercing blue ones and shook his head in a perfect display of disbelief. "There's nothing I couldn't tell you, sir."

"The day I believe that is the day I give up and go back to England to grow potatoes. Out with it, man?"

"His name is James Carlyle. A long time ago he worked for me."

"For you?" Wellington had a drill–instructor's voice and Hogan winced.

"A long time ago."

"Indeed."

Hogan sighed, he had known this was going to be difficult. "It's a short story, sir. He worked for me here, did some good work and then went native. Went a bit mad." Hogan shifted uneasily under the intense scrutiny that had made royalty quiver. "He might just be wanting the guns to get revenge."

"Does he have some sort of grudge against you?"

"Not me, sir, the English."

"Charming. And we're about to put a hundred prime muskets into the hands of a renegade with a grudge against his own kind. Does that seem like good sense to you, Hogan?"

"Not when you put it like that, sir."

"Mmm. I don't suppose you told Sharpe about this extra little problem?"

"No. I didn't think he needed to know. Though he might by now, of course. Sharpe and Carlyle are two of a kind."

"Sharpe's no traitor?"

"No, I meant more that he can be stubborn as hell. And he's not that good at sticking to orders. They are quite alike, that's why I sent him."

"I though I did that." Wellington sat back and waited.

"Ah, well..."

And the Peer smiled. "You are a devious bastard, Hogan. Just try and remember whose devious bastard you are."

"All the time, sir." Hogan relaxed slightly. "In future that is."

"Quite." Wellington pushed at the map that sat weighted to his desk. The bandit camp was clearly marked in its protective mountainous terrain. "Are you trying to get Carlyle back, is that why you wanted Sharpe to be the one to go, thinking that similarity would make Carlyle open to Sharpe?"

"Yes. If you'd ever met him you'd understand — he'd be much more valuable as an ally than an enemy."

"You should have told Sharpe then, shouldn't you? He might have been more use knowing what was going on. He won't be kind to Carlyle once he knows he's a turncoat."

"But this way Carlyle won't suspect an ulterior motive. He'll see Sharpe and know there is no guile there, no trap."

Wellington suddenly sat forward. "Hogan, you've sent others before Sharpe, haven't you?"

Hogan sighed and nodded.

"What happened to them?"

Hogan gave a vivid mime of a throat being cut.

"Why?"

"Because the last one I sent told him his father was dead and that he'd finally inherited the title. A fact he didn't seem to appreciate." Wellington tapped an impatient finger on the desk and Hogan hurried to explain. "He's old Lord Carlyle's son."

"Good God, I knew his father?" Wellington though for a moment. "I thought the son was reported dead?"

"He was. But they were lies. Old Carlyle cast the son off for some petty misdeed and went on as if he'd died. I believe there is even a tomb with his name on it in the family plot."

"Well I never. A British lord running wild with a pack of cut throats. No wonder you want him back." Wellington considered the father he had known and the man sent to bring the black–sheep back to the fold. "Are you really sure Sharpe was the right choice?"

"No question, sir. They'll get on famously."

"And Carlyle will come back to a hero's welcome and a title." He considered. "Unless Sharpe goes native too. Had you thought of that?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, sir. But Harper will bring him back, don't you worry."

"Mmm. God I hate all this. Give me a good, clean battle any day, rather than all this murky double dealing. At least you seem to thrive on it." He glared balefully at Hogan's comfortable girth.

"I do, sir. I do at that."

"Well, what else have you up your sleeve..."

And the conversation went on with no more mention of the perplexing problem of what was happening miles away in a ruined mountain fortress.

* * * * *

The shock of the other man's departure ripped the air from Sharpe's lungs. He was on his feet, reaching for the reassurance of touch, for a touch he was sure would bind the other man to his side, when the door opened and without a backward glance Carlyle was gone.

The air shivered with the force of the door slamming, and plaster crumbled derisively from one of the cracks in the wall.

Standing as if rooted, Sharpe wrapped his arms around his body and tried not to think, not to feel. Cursing himself he turned and went back to sit on the bed.

At least he had left the lantern behind. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm the shaking that so unsettled his limbs, Sharpe sat in the circle of its light, his hair a tangle of gold and amber where the flame touched against it. He was staring into the distance, sightless, without thought, bereft of everything but the most shameful need. He could sense every pore of his body, every drop of sweat that trickled slowly down his skin. Most of all he could feel the places, the very pieces of his skin that the other man had touched.

There was no rational thought in his head, only confusion and a passionate need to feel Carlyle close to him, to be once again touched by his hands, to feel the heat of that dark desire burning brightly as his own.

For he had no doubt at all, despite Carlyle's words, that his actions had spoken far more honestly of the truth. The attraction was mutual. As was the lust.

He shivered, remembering the firm touch on his body. And the slight widening of the sleepy eyes when he had reacted to that touch. Mutual indeed.

Not that it looked like doing either of them any good.

He groaned and shifted as the memory became too much for his own self–control; the growing need of his own flesh suddenly becoming pressing.

With a flicker of what could have been resigned amusement, he knew it was perhaps better that he was alone.

Frustration allowing no other recourse, Sharpe moved until he was lying flat on the bed, his fingers hurriedly fumbling to unbutton his trousers, hurrying to bare his groin. Already erect, his cock sprang free from the constricting cotton and seeped need into the warm night air, pulsing in demand as his fingers curled possessively around its length. Eyes wide, he stared at the ceiling, seeing a strong, wide shouldered body in the patterns of the shadows, seeing mocking dark eyes in the contours of the dark.

Stripped almost to his skin, sprawled in loose abandon, he allowed himself the rare luxury of dreaming whilst awake. There was little subtlety to his imaginings. Always confused by his own willingness to be taken by Harper, he felt no need for change in what he wanted from Carlyle. There was no romance, no courtship in this meeting. He imagined the hard touch of flesh on flesh and his own rough impalement. His real body arched as if in pain at the thought and his cock bucked impatiently in his hand. He soothed it, stroking the skin that never ceased to surprise him with its softness, taking it in a firm grip and beginning the easy strokes that would surely bring him off. He closed his eyes and tried to react as if the hand touching him so knowingly was not his own.

He hissed out loud, muscles knotting. He was close, so very close, all surroundings fading as the world shrank to centre on his cock and balls. He could hear his own breath, smell the sweat on his skin, the musk that filled the air with every fevered stroke of his hand. The taste of Carlyle still burned on his tongue, permeated his skin. He was nearly there, nearly. Then he heard a noise and his eyes were open, staring at the open door.

Framed by shadow, his face a mask of acute longing, there stood Carlyle.

The world stopped in its turning. All except Sharpe's cock, which understanding nothing but fulfilment spilled seed unknowingly, to mix with the sweat that clung to his heaving belly and chest and on the clutching fingers.

Helpless, his expression torn between shame and desire, his need untouched by the orgasm that had spent his body, Sharpe could only lie still, his skin burned by that unwavering, feral gaze. Silently he begged that the other man would touch, reach forward, take what he so clearly wanted. Words constricted in his throat, tangled where his heart so precipitously lodged.

How long Carlyle had stood there watching, Sharpe had no idea, but he was clearly aroused, the fabric of his breeches making no secret of that. For a long moment the stillness held, until Sharpe had to move. He shifted, stickily uncurling his hand, his breath suddenly scant, very loud in the stillness. And brought his fingers to his mouth.

When the fingers slid inside, Carlyle groaned, his own hand clutching hard at the door. It was as if he was about to move.

Shame consumed by need, heart beating impossibly in his throat, Sharpe offered himself. With one hand he reached out, wordless, as words were another language. He knew one blinding second when it seemed as if he was going to be met, then to shatter the silence there came the sound of returning guards, their voices loud.

It was as if Carlyle returned from a distant place. He shook his head, a shudder that couldn't be disguised rippling through his body.

Then he was gone. Leaving Sharpe reaching into thin air, leaving him nothing but unwanted freedom to curse in the foulest ways he had ever learned.

* * * * *

For the first time Harper approached the stronghold with his eyes open. In the late afternoon light it looked impressive and quite daunting. Assessing it in much the same way that Sharpe had done, he knew that if this group of bandits wanted they could make life for the British army difficult. If they made it difficult enough to make Wellington decide to do something about them, then pity the poor bastards given the job of laying siege to the place.

Whistling to keep himself company, for he didn't count the four grim looking Spaniards who had kept pace with him for the past two miles, he rode up to the gates and wondered, for about the fiftieth time, if he was mad.

That circuitous train of thought went no further, for the gates creaked open and he was suddenly riding inside.

Searched for weapons, deprived of knife and rifle, he was escorted on foot through the long colonnade that trailed with flowering vine, past groups of bandits he religiously counted as he went, into the damp and chill interior of the thick walled building, casting a curious eye about him as he went.

They led him up what once must have been the main staircase, though now part of it had fallen through and sections of its carved banister were missing, across a hallway and into a wide, simply appointed room that was as crumbling and dilapidated as all the others he had seen. The only difference was that here an attempt had been made at providing comfort; the floor was covered by carpet to hide the battered boards and the room was furnished with an odd selection of ornate furniture, including a paper–strewn desk, chair and a bed. As long as you didn't pay attention to the cracked plaster or the lack of glass in all but one of the windows, it gave the appearance almost of respectability.

Dressed in riding clothes, standing with his back to the open windows, was the man Harper had spoken to before. The Englishman. Sharpe's captor.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Harper. I trust you had a good journey?" There was only specious, mocking good–will in the enquiry and Harper, for a reason he wasn't quite sure of, felt that the exact opposite of the sentiment was more in line with what the other man was thinking.

"It was grand, thanking you." Harper smiled benignly and wondered where his Captain was.

"Good, good." It appeared the Englishman could smile just as emptily. He paced close to Harper, who raised himself to his full height and found he only just looked down on the other man. "And how is Wellington?"

"His Lordship's fighting fit, sir. I'd like to say he sent you his compliments but he neglected to add them to the message."

"I'm sure." The wide lips curled in bitter amusement. "And Major Hogan?"

"The same."

"Indeed." This time the bitterness was unalloyed by humour. Harper watched for any play of emotion on the still face, but the hooded eyes gave nothing away. "So, tell me, what did they say?"

"That we can't spare that amount of muskets, but they're willing for me to negotiate."

The blunt statement had Carlyle turning on his heel, hiding his smile of satisfaction. He went back to the window and looked up, seemingly peering through the ragged canopy of leaves that overhung the room's balcony.

Harper wondered what he was looking at, but said nothing, waiting patiently for the next move.

"So, what do they offer for Captain Sharpe's life?"

"Fifty muskets."

"Fifty?" Carlyle turned. "They don't value him very highly at all, do they?" He didn't wait for an answer but went on. "I could get that many muskets before tomorrow if I tried."

"I'm sure you could, sir. But would they be nice, brand new ones; still shiny, still smelling of England they are."

Carlyle held still, tilting his head to frown at the thick–set Irishman. "A hundred."

Harper shook his head regretfully. "I don't know what they'd say if I agreed to that. Though if you did say that you weren't going to use them on us I might be able to persuade them, the powers that be, that is."

"They don't ask for much, do they."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Harper nodded in agreement. "That's what I was thinking, sir."

Staring at him, Carlyle suspiciously searched for something other than the unperturbed calm that sat so easily on the wide Irish features. "Indeed."

"Yes, sir."

Pacing the room, Carlyle hesitated, then sat himself down on a high–backed chair that stood behind the desk. "One hundred new muskets," he mused, as if to himself, then smiled. "As long as we cease harassing the British."

"And you let Captain Sharpe go."

Carlyle looked up sharply, then nodded. Linking his hands he made a castle of his fingers, staring for a long time at the cage they made. Then he nodded. "As you say." With a decisive nod he broke his hands apart and lounged back. "Well, we are agreed. Ramon?" He shouted the name loudly.

"Si?" A guard appeared at the door and they spoke in so rapid a dialect that Harper with his rough Spanish could not follow. There was some disagreement but in the end the Englishman appeared to give in with bad grace.

He leant forward, resting his arms on the desk, and spoke quite slowly, as if weighing up a completely different issue as he talked. "There, it is all arranged. You'll be our guest for tonight."

"But I need to get back?" Harper took a pace forward, dismayed at the invitation that was certainly an order. "Let me go. The sooner I get back then the sooner you'll have your guns."

Carlyle ran a finger along a groove in the desk, he went on as if to himself. "And the sooner your Captain Sharpe will be free." Then he looked up.

If Harper had been milk he would have curdled under the brooding gaze. He shifted uneasily, not quite sure why he was made to feel so uncomfortable. In fact the whole interview had been conducted with undercurrents that Harper couldn't quite recognise, but knew with certainty that he didn't like. He tried again, "Really, I'll be fine leaving now."

"Well, you can't." This time the tone left no room for doubt. "We're working and I can't spare men to take you back to your lines. Ramon here will escort you to a place for the night. Unfortunately we aren't fitted out as a prison, so you'll have to share your Captain's cell."

His heart leaping at the prospect of checking on Sharpe's well–being in person, Harper suddenly didn't feel so bad about having to wait until morning to leave.

"I thought you might like that." And with that cryptic comment as the end of the interview Carlyle spoke again to the guard and Harper was escorted in silent resignation out of the room.

He was led through a maze of evil–smelling corridors that seemed to be taking him on a journey that wound its way around the central well of the fortress. He took mental note of everything he saw, which wasn't much, as his guard neglected to give him a guided tour of the armoury or indeed any rooms other than damp and dust–strewn corridors. Finally they came to a stairwell and he was taken up four shallow flights until they came to the second floor.

Heart beating faster in anticipation, Harper waited impatiently while Ramon spoke with the man guarding what had to be Sharpe's cell. They were laughing about something, but Harper was too concerned about the man who waited behind the cracking wood to care what was said. After what seemed an age, they clapped each other on the back and with a clink of keys the door was unlocked. With a wide grin the guard stood back and waved Harper through.

* * * * *

Sharpe woke from sleep with the nightmare crawling in his skin and horror befuddling his mind. In panic he reached for his sword, wildly groping for it before he remembered where he was. Wiping an unsteady hand over the shadows that seemed to cling to his face he struggled out of bed, making it to the window where he stood unsteadily taking in deep draughts of heavy, thunder–scented air. After a moment he shivered and tugged his fingers through his hair as if to wipe the clinging essence of the dream away.

It was late afternoon, maybe even early evening. He knew he must have slept for hours; no wonder every limb felt weighted with sleep. After the restlessness of the previous night and the long day of boredom sleeping had seemed the best way to pass the day. At least that way he couldn't be constantly hoping for something that didn't happen.

After his second precipitous exit, Carlyle had not returned. By the time an hour had gone by, Sharpe had wanted to hit the walls. After two he had resigned himself to a sleep that was without ease or comfort.

With the dawn he had woken early, climbed from sweated, crumpled sheets and taken to staring out onto the courtyard, spending hours simply watching, waiting for something, what exactly he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge.

The activity in the stronghold was as restless as Sharpe's thoughts. It was clear that something was brewing. All day there had been flurries of activity and every man who sat for however little time in the open square had cleaned his weapons at least once if not twice. Horses had been ridden in and out of the fortress, vast quantities of food had been consumed. Of Carlyle there was no sign at all, though his lieutenants seemed to be running around in concentric circles.

Sometime around midday one of the more taciturn of the guards had brought Sharpe a meal along with a pitcher of clean water. After a long pretence at misunderstanding, he had also brought a fresh bucket and taken away the fouled one. But only after Sharpe had threatened in mime to hurl the stinking contents out into the crowd below.

Its absence made a vast difference to the comfort of the room, the fetid air clearing almost immediately. Sharpe felt heartened enough to try and persuade the guard to take him out to the water–pump. He was filthy, sweat and grime crusting his skin. Despite being used to the harsh realities of campaign life, he wanted quite desperately to be clean. He'd watched enviously as the men had used the free–flowing water and he'd imagined the coolness of it against his skin until he had to turn away. Looking at his body he felt little but disgust, and had only to compare himself to the fastidious Carlyle to know how disreputable he must appear. The guard didn't care, and was deaf to Sharpe's request.

When he had gone, shrugging in insolent bad grace, Sharpe muttered to himself, then struggling with a torn–off piece of the blanket and what water he thought he could spare, made an awkward but thorough attempt at getting clean. Careful not to foul what he would need to drink, and after much mild cursing, he did feel better and was as presentable as the disagreeable circumstances would allow.

Finally content, he had slipped back into his borrowed breeches and sat down with a sigh compounded of resignation and utter frustration. The meal was still there, sitting coldly on its plate and he slowly chewed his way through the coarse bread and meat that was veined with grey fat and thick with gristle.

Putting the plate on the floor, he had exhausted the day's entertainment.

He tried some gentle exercises, easing his muscles, loosening his joints. He was sweating after only a short while, but persevered, making his damaged muscles groan until they obeyed. He pushed himself beyond the point where sense decreed he stop, and found himself sitting on the bed trying to calm the erratic twitching of the long–muscles in his limbs.

In the end he laid himself flat, his breath clogging on the humidity that had found its way past the thick stone walls, making them too sweat in the oppressive heat. He was resigned to counting cracks, but instead fell immediately into a deep sleep from which the nightmare had rudely shaken him.

He was sitting staring at the floor when laughter from the corridor finally caught his straying attention. Prickling with a wave of anticipation he was on his feet long before the key was even turning in the lock.

But the man admitted wasn't Carlyle. "Harper?" After that one exclamation, Sharpe was shocked into silence.

Harper was never at such a loss for words. "Jesus, but you're looking none too grand. Better than the last time I saw you though, so I shouldn't be complaining." He grinned. "Hello, sir."

"Hello, Pat."

They waited until the locked door gave them privacy then Sharpe took two steps forward and his fingers were clutching at the moth–eaten wool of his sergeant's jacket. "What in hell's name are you doing here? Don't tell me they've taken you?"

"No, sir, nothing like that." Harper let himself be shaken, the mere proximity of his Captain enough to make him almost content. "Hogan and the Peer sent me to negotiate your ransom."

"Don't tell me the old bastards have come up with three hundred muskets? If they have then I might as well stay here as they'll never forgive me?"

"Not quite the three hundred the Englishman originally wanted, just the one."

"One hundred muskets...Jesus, that makes hardly any difference, Wellington will think I owe him blood."

"Oh, he thought that anyway, sir, so I wouldn't worry about it. Just be thankful they want you out of here."

"I suppose so." Letting his hands fall away from Harper's jacket he frowned. "And that still doesn't tell me why you're in here."

"You mean locked up for the night with you? Well, the Englishman and his band of cut–throats are out intent on some villainy tonight. Apparently they couldn't spare anyone to make sure I traipsed back over the Lines like a good boy, and didn't come back here to rescue you." He looked comically aggrieved. "And such a though hadn't occurred to me once."

"Course not?" Sharpe gave a quick, mildly unconvincing grin and sat himself on the edge of the bed.

"Of course they could have found another room, but I don't suppose they've got that many with four good walls."

"No."

Harper surveyed his captain with a wary eye, seeing less health and more strain than he would have liked. Strain and something else. "Are you all right?"

Sharpe looked up and visibly considered five different answers, opened and closed his mouth on a couple of them, then in the end merely shrugged.

Harper leant himself against the wall. "Tell me. The last time I saw you, you were out cold and some bastard was proving he didn't care a farthing for you with his fist."

"I don't remember that."

"Good. But you can take my word for it, and for the fact that I've been a bit concerned about the way they might have been treating you."

Sharpe was picking at a nasty scab on his hand which was clearly itching like the devil, his eyes shadowed by the fall of his hair. "It's been all right." He paused. "Tell me, the man hitting me, was it Carlyle?"

"So that's the English bastard's name. No it wasn't, it was one of his Spaniards."

"Ah."

Harper wiped his sleeve over his face and tried a different tack. "I've got your jacket safe."

"Great."

Harper resisted the urge to court the ignominy of court–martial just for a moment's satisfaction. He folded his hands across his body, tucking his fists out of harm's way. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No?" Sharpe exploded to his feet, making his companion jump. "I'll be bloody glad to be out of this pox–hole."

That was better. "Well, so you would. Hogan's getting the muskets ready, I'll be right back and then you can spit in the eye of that bastard out there."

"His name is Carlyle. Lord James Philip Glebe Carlyle."

"Fancy now?" Harper tried not to wonder at the bitter tone in which the name was said. "And was he the one ordered this done?" He pushed away from the wall and reaching out, gently touched one of the bruises that scattered in various hues from black to green to ochre across the thin–fleshed torso.

Sharpe laughed; a short, quick sound that echoed dryly in the room. "Apparently his men needed to let off steam."

"Jesus, I'm surprised they didn't kill you."

"So was I."

"Why couldn't they have gone and knocked seven kinds of shit out of the French instead of you?"

"Oh, I think they do that as well. They like their entertainment." Sharpe looked Harper in the eye and his expression was easier, hinting at the possibility of wry amusement. "At least they weren't out fighting us. Though Christ knows what they're going to be up to tonight, I've been thinking about it on and off all day."

"Carlyle did say they'd leave us alone in exchange for the muskets."

"Ay, but he hasn't got them yet, has he?"

"No."

"And he hates the English." Sharpe sat himself down again, pulling his legs under him to lean against the wall.

"Does he now. Perhaps he's not as bad as he seems."

Sharpe almost smiled. "Come on, Pat. You don't hate all of us."

"No." Harper considered, then smiled back. "I'm very glad they didn't kill you."

"So am I."

A sort of amicability restored, they fell back into a companionable silence. Harper paced the room, muttering about the lack of ways to escape, rattled at the door only to be greeted by a cascade of irate Spanish. He peered out at the darkening sky and knew a storm was due. Making a face at it, he turned back into the room and began to strip off his jacket, tossing it casually into a corner before wiping his face on a shirt–sleeve. "It'll storm tonight, sure enough."

Sharpe wasn't listening. Harper turned to where Sharpe sat in a pool of silence on the bed and it was clear he hadn't heard a word. Taking the few steps to his captain's side, Harper crouched and laid a gentle hand on his knee.

"Tell me?"

Startled from his reverie, Sharpe looked Harper straight in the eye. "What?"

"What you want."

Sharpe began to shake his head, then reached out and slowly curved his hand over the warmth of Harper's. "Come to bed?"

"Here?" Harper was mildly scandalised.

"We'll be left alone."

"Are you sure?"

"You don't usually doubt me."

Sharpe sketched what was meant to be a smile. Lost in that single, stark exposure of need, Harper turned his fingers until they were linked with the finer ones that fitted so well with his own. And nodded.

It was near to dark. Shadows had been crawling through the room almost without either man noticing. Harper stood up and reached for the lamp.

"There's no oil in it." Sharpe's voice stopped him. "It doesn't matter, we don't need it."

"I like to look at you."

Sharpe gave a short, almost laugh. "So you can see what you're doing to your officer?"

"So I can see what Richard Sharpe looks like off duty." Harper wondered at the bitterness that had crept into the other man's thinking. "I like to look. You're no hardship on the eyes."

This time the laugh was easy, if layered in disbelief. "A likely story? Now get your clothes off."

"Yes, sir?"

By the time he had stripped off the remnants of his clothing and climbed onto the bed, Sharpe was naked too. Harper ran his hands over the familiar skin and smiled at the sigh that answered his touch. They had done this so often, in so many places, in so many furtive and hidden ways that he could chart the hard body at his side without compass or stars. He liked to have light, to see the need his touch incited, but he didn't require it. He reached forward, bringing the lighter man closer, letting their bodies touch full length, hiding his surprise at the already hard demand that surged urgently against the rising heat of his own.

He realised that a faint tremor was running constantly through the other man and increased the pressure of his hands, whispering under his breath to calm whatever storm of need was raging in his lover.

But Sharpe was wound too tight, he twisted in the sure grip, pressing himself against the bulk and heat beside him, hissing sharply when Harper tried to pull away, to slow things down. "No? Pat..." He was incoherent, almost beside himself with a desire that had little to do with the man in whose arms he was held. "Patrick?"

And Harper knew. He shook his head in dismay. "There's nothing for me to use."

"Spittle." The answer was terse, hoarse with impatience. He was already turning, unlocking limb from limb so he could spread himself flat, burying his face in the sweat–grimed sheet. He took a deep, shaky breath that was quite audible in the still, empty night and finally managed to find control enough to say in a soft, uneven tone over his shoulder, "Please?"

Harper said nothing, concentrating instead on finding some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth. As incentive he knelt between the wide–spread legs, curving his hand over the fine–downed skin of thigh and buttock, seeing the darker shadow of his hand as it travelled across the pale, night–silvered skin. Milking his own cock, needing the first drops of seed to fall as easier lubricant than spit on its own, he felt disconnected, as if this act had precious little to do with him, little to do with what relationship he thought he had with the man lying so openly at his mercy. Not that such fine scruples stopped his cock from hardening or his body from pressing forward, all too eager to be sheathed in that pliant flesh.

He spat, fingering the liquid into the crease that in a swathe of shadow split Sharpe's body with an arrow of darkness, adding the first spilling of his own body to the offering, hurrying as Sharpe twisted, groaning as fingers pressed inside him.

"Fuck me?" The roughly whispered words were a command. "Do it, do it now."

Obedient despite the doubts that weighed him, Harper spread himself across the over–heated skin, nudging his cock into place, finding the tightness that gave so much pleasure and slowly pushed in.

As a coupling it wasn't easy for either man. Coming almost immediately Sharpe had to bite on his hand to stifle the scream he couldn't free, sobbing as the pain and the pleasure flash–fired within him, stripping away all possibility of restraint. He came until he was shuddering wildly, almost mindless, wits scattered to the four winds.

When he finally drew them back together and pulled the chewed skin of his hand away from his teeth, Harper was still moving, making small noises in the back of his throat that Sharpe had never heard before. Guilt filled Sharpe and he gasped as the lack of lubricant began to take its toll. The pain was almost welcome; an apt punishment for the crime committed. He gave himself up to it, knowing that Harper needed him. He gathered his resources and pushed back, rewarded by a groan of relief and a speeding of the long strokes that pressed him so deeply into the hard bed. Sweat dripped from both men, Sharpe had his eyes tight closed and his teeth were set, grimly determined not to give in. There was no pleasure, only need and when Harper finally convulsed and shuddered against him the only emotion left was that of relief, and when the heavy cock slid free of his flesh Sharpe couldn't help the small, animal sound that escaped his lips.

Battered and aching, Sharpe castigated himself, feeling nothing but the acrid bitterness of shame. Awkwardly he turned, for the first time almost afraid to meet his friend, appallingly thankful for the darkness.

"Pat?"

There was only silence, which Sharpe read as reproach.

"Jesus, I'm sorry."

In the narrow confines of the bed, Harper settled awkwardly until he was lying flat, then with a sigh drew Sharpe's uneasy, strain–tight body into the circle of his arm. "Will you tell me what it was all about?"

He felt the shudder that ran from Sharpe's head to his toes. "Pat..."

"How about if you tell me in the morning?"

Sharpe sounded as if he was choking, "Why are you such an understanding bastard?"

"Must be having all those sisters." Harper smiled into the blind night and tightened the pressure of his arm in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "Go to sleep?" He felt Sharpe's abrupt nod. "Night then, sir."

"Night, Pat." There was perhaps a sound of hesitation, as if Sharpe was considering the possibility of saying more, but in the end there was nothing but listless silence.

Harper waited. The thick stone walls creaked in the heat and he too sweated, too confused, too perturbed to push Sharpe away and gain a measure of respite from the humidity by that means. An owl was out hunting. Harper waited, listening for other sounds, but there were none, just the steady intake and release of breath from the man at his side.

In the end he muttered under his breath something that could have been a Christian prayer, or maybe was an invocation to an older God. He closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, but when it eventually reached him he went willingly, tired of the twists and turns of his thoughts, worn out by worry and what he cheerlessly hoped was over–cautious concern.

* * * * *

They were woken by the door slamming back on its hinges.

Sharpe sat up with a grimace that faded as he took in the state of Carlyle. "What happened?" He was climbing awkwardly off the bed, oblivious to his nakedness, or that of Harper's.

Carlyle pushed the door shut with his foot and glared imperiously down his nose. "We won, what does it look like?"

Considering he was covered in dry blood and powder burns scorched his face, the question was a strange one. Sharpe gave a single shake of his head and tried to work out where Carlyle could be hurt. "Where's the blood coming from?"

"The blood?" For a moment Carlyle was at a loss. Then his expression cleared as he looked down at the gory state of his once fine clothing. "Oh, the blood's not mine. I told you, I doctor my men." He smiled, the whiteness of his teeth showing briefly, catching viciously in the early dawn light.

"Oh." Sharpe sat down, too heavily for his own good and couldn't quite hide the wince.

"I came to tell you that your sergeant can go."

Harper was on his feet and already dressing. He had missed nothing of the short exchange and his only concern now was to get Sharpe away from this place as soon as possible. "I'm ready."

"Good." He called out in Spanish and just as Harper was shrugging untidily into his jacket a knock sounded at the door. "That's your escort." Carlyle put his hand on the door–handle. "They're none too pleased about being sent out so soon, so you might have a fast journey."

"The faster the better." Harper looked the tall Englishman straight in the eye and his expression hid nothing.

The only reaction was a quirking of the wide mouth. But there was no doubt that the challenge had been accepted. "Goodbye, Sergeant. Come back soon."

"Don't fret yourself about that. You won't even know I've been gone."

"Won't we? Well, maybe, maybe not."

Harper almost took a step towards the tacit invitation, but Sharpe was there, holding his arm. Harper turned towards him and the eloquence in the heart of his eyes was enough to make Sharpe's skin ripple in reaction and to make him alarmingly aware of his own nakedness. As soon as he was sure that the Irishman was going to do nothing foolish he turned and picking up his breeches stepped self–consciously into them.

When he turned, Harper was at the door. What was there to say? "Good–bye, Pat. Thanks."

"Save them for Wellington." And he sketched a grin that almost worked before stepping through the open doorway. His voice could be heard almost to the end of the corridor as he tried to talk with the guards, his lilt gradually fading, leaving Sharpe alone with his enemy.

"What did he do to you?"

Surprised, Sharpe shook his head, "Eh?"

"These bruises weren't here when I left." Carlyle was suddenly very close, his fingers touching the hand prints which skimmed what could be seen of Sharpe's jutting collar–bones. "Do you let him hit you?"

"Don't be stupid?" The derision was quite clear.

"Then what?"

"He fucked me?" Anger raised Sharpe's voice and his breath was fast, his nostrils flaring with the force of emotion that was suddenly storming in his blood. "Happy now?"

"No." It was a shout, the single word twisting his mouth into a semblance of ugliness. "I knew I was mad to leave you together. Mad..." He came closer, the bitter smell of sweat and dry blood lifting from his clothes. "It was a test, to myself you understand. If he could spend a night with you and not touch you then why should I have such trouble sleeping just because you are locked in a room in the same place. And then I walk in here and all I can smell is you and all I can see are the marks he left to litter your skin. Jesus." He pressed Sharpe until he was against the wall, desire burning like a flame in the darkness deep in his eyes. "I have killed countless Frenchmen this night, I've watched men I care about die and all I've thought of was you. What have you done to me?" The wide eyed question was unanswerable for he covered Sharpe's mouth with his own, the kiss savagely demanding much more than silence.

When Carlyle pulled back, his eyes were glazed, filled with mindless lust. "Turn around."

The demand brooked no misunderstanding and Sharpe, aroused as he was, could only shake his head in denial. "No..."

The blow caught the side of his jaw and stunned him, more from surprise than pain. He felt himself turned though he fought, the other man careless of everything but his own need, his greater weight and height giving no quarter.

"No..." he tried again. There was no arousal now. Breath was forced from his body and fingers were ripping the old cotton from his hips, then without preamble were pressing into the pain that the previous night's coupling had bequeathed. "Carlyle?" Sharpe knew there had to be a way to stop this, he wasn't sure if he could survive if he was taken with this sort of fury still boiling in Carlyle's blood. "James, don't?"

He cried out as the fingers began to rip him apart, the sound finally permeating the haze that filled his captor's thoughts.

Everything stilled. Then Carlyle brought his hand up to where he could see it. "Sweet Jesus." He staggered backwards, holding the hand in front of him as if it were diseased. Then he looked up, horror stark on his face. "What was I going to do?"

Sharpe leant against the wall and shivered as the sweat that coated his body quickly chilled in the early morning air. He was very pale, the dark bruises on his face livid against its pallor. "Fuck me. But you didn't." He shook his head, mildly stunned at the bright blood that coated Carlyle's fingertips.

"I knew he'd hurt you, but I didn't imagine." Carlyle fumbled with his shirt, pulling it loose from his breeches in order to wipe the hand on a clean piece of its cotton, before finally looking up in dismay tinged with disgust. "Is it always like that? Does he always hurt you enough to make you bleed?"

"No. I was mad myself last night, made him do it, despite not having anything to make it easy." Sharpe rested both shoulders against the wall and sighed, cursing himself and the fallibility of his flesh. "I used him."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted you." Carlyle shuddered as if a knife had been skimmed across his skin. "And I still do, though you might have to wait for anything quite like that."

"Richard..."

"Come here."

Carlyle swallowed, then obeyed.

Sharpe straightened and when the other man was very close, he gave a brief smile of singular sweetness, his eyes unshadowed, his voice soft and sweet. "If I was mad last night, I must be twice as mad today. Come here."

The command was almost valueless as they were so close, but Carlyle took another half–step that brought him pressed close to the nakedness in front of him. Then he too smiled, recognising both the absurdity and the rarity of what they shared.

He touched the place on Sharpe's chin where his fist had struck, regret passing like rain across his face. "I'm good at hurting you."

"Never mind. I don't break easily."

"Just as well."

They were both smiling; blood, grime and pain forgotten in the brief moment of knowing. It held between them like mist; the rightness, the coming homeness of it all. In that brief moment everything changed, as if time itself had only just begun and all that went before was just a dream of another person, a stranger far away. Carlyle tentatively moved forward and with almost gauche hesitation offered a kiss, tilting his head, blinking as the offer was accepted with surprising grace. This time there was no violence, no avaricious need, simply a tenderness that surprised each man and took the breath fleeing from their lungs.

When their lips parted, Carlyle looked almost serene. His eyes were dark, still shadowed by the fever burning inside, though now it was held in check, controlled. "If I let you out of here, will you promise me not to try and escape?"

Sharpe gave a snort of amusement. "Do you think I'll try?"

Carlyle tilted his head to one side and considered. "This could all be a bluff." "Mmm, and the moon's made of cream cheese." He grinned suddenly, happiness as rare as diamonds spreading like heat through his whole body. "Tell you what, if I can have ten minutes under that water–pump of yours, I'll give my word."

"Very well." The long nose wrinkled. "I could do with the same if not longer myself."

"I never noticed."

"Liar." Carlyle smiled in bemusement, as if he had suddenly found the world had proven itself to be a mirage, and stepped away; waiting only until Sharpe had fashioned a semblance of decency out of his torn breeches before leading him out of the cell and towards his own quarters.

* * * * *

It was a beautiful morning. The promised storm had swept past them and flashes of lightning could be seen far in the distance. The air was still sultry, but the oppressive heat of the previous day and night was lifting, leaving warmth and overhead a bright, cloud dusted sky.

Sharpe stepped away from the pump, signalling to the boy who manned it so industriously that enough was enough, finally giving in to the fact that he couldn't stay under the cascading water forever. He straightened, pushing his hair out of his eyes, wincing as virtually every part of him protested. He stood quite still, eyes lightly closed, basking in the moment like an indolent cat in the sunlight. Yesterday he could not have imagined this, this pleasure. Yesterday had been a different country. A country he had no desire to return to.

He started as a cloth was thrown at him, reacting fast enough to catch it before it landed on the wet stones at his feet. Opening his eyes he smiled when he saw Carlyle, one foot propped against a stone trough, laughing at him. He had been the first to use the pump and to Sharpe's eyes looked immaculate, all remnants of the previous night swept away by water, soap, blade and comb. He fingered his own chin and wanted the same.

"Dry yourself on that."

Sharpe finally looked at what he had caught and began to use the wide sheet of cotton as Carlyle had instructed, before wrapping it in a swathe around himself and following the other man inside, ignoring the cold, speculative stares from the few men who were lounging around the square.

Inside Carlyle's room, he waited until the door was firmly closed, then looked with undisguised curiosity around him. He went over to the bed and eyed it with amusement. "Where did you get this from, it looks like it came out of a high–class brothel." He scanned the room. "In fact all of the furniture does."

"Would you believe from the baggage train of a French colonel?"

"Bloody hell? He must've been a rich one."

"Mmm, we ransomed him for more gold than would feed the British army for six months." Carlyle walked lazily across and stared down. "It's monstrous, isn't it?"

"I certainly wouldn't've thought it belonged to you."

"It's comfortable, that's all I care about." He crossed his arms, looking oddly at his companion. "What would you imagine me sleeping in?"

"Something not dripping in gold–leaf for a start? Maybe a huge four–poster, something like you'd imagine one of the old kings sleeping in."

Carlyle shuddered delicately. "I grew up with those monstrosities. Give me something that doesn't stink of mildew, or have a mattress less comfortable than the mountainside out there. I'm all for bodily comfort, and speaking of which, there's water and razor in there." He nodded to a curtained off corner of the room. As Sharpe turned, he smiled and reached out to smooth his thumb over the dusting of dark gold beard that softened the clean line of jaw. Unshaven, hair half–dry and in a tangled thatch, the Rifleman still looked dangerously desirable. But Carlyle was prosaically quite prepared for such appreciation to be merely part of his madness. He shrugged, letting the hand fall to his side. "If you want, that is?"

"If? Don't be daft." Sharpe went over and pulled the curtain back. The ornate bowl and gold–handled razor, the gilt encrusted mirror; all must have belonged to the same French colonel. "Did you leave him anything?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." Sharpe pushed his hands into the wide bowl and sighed in sheer pleasure when he found the water was warm. Cupping it into his joined hands he brought it to his face, letting it run into his tired eyes, soak his three day beard. There was a cake of soap beside the bowl and rubbing it between his palms he worked up a luxuriant lather before soaping his bristled chin. Rinsing his hands he picked up the too–pretty blade, opening it dubiously, sure that something so ornamental could never perform its task adequately. With his thumb he tested its edge but the doubt was unfounded, the slim blade was honed to perfection. He grinned in surprise and then began, with great delight, to shave.

Meanwhile, Carlyle walked over to a small table and poured them both a drink. Returning, he hesitated, a glass in each hand, watching the even glide of fine–honed blade across the long line of throat and jaw, seeing it careful of all the healing scrapes, the marks that were clearly still tender to the touch. For a moment he caught the intent eyes, their gaze meeting in the cracked pane of the ormolu mirror, making the razor halt in its path, then Sharpe looked away and the rasping sweep of the blade continued.

Finished, he wiped his face on a corner of the sheet in which he was wrapped and then, having pulled a comb haphazardly through the tangle of his hair, walked back to Carlyle.

A long hand held out a crystal glass filled with wine. "Here, drink this." Carlyle offered the drink, watching intently the way Sharpe walked, the still constrained movements of his body. Despite that, he appeared curiously at home, and would probably do so wherever he was: at home and peculiarly himself, two traits Carlyle envied, for he didn't recognise them in himself.

Sharpe took the glass, and drank thankfully. He was hungry, the wine waking his stomach with a subdued growl.

"You're hungry."

Sharpe couldn't deny the accusation. "Bloody starving."

"Wait." And Carlyle was walking to the door, opening it and speaking in quick, commanding Spanish to whoever stood on its other side. After a few moments he returned. "Miguel will bring something, God knows what as the whole place is in chaos after last night."

"What happened?"

Carlyle closed his eyes and shuddered. "We won."

When the eyes opened, Sharpe wondered at the madness that stared for a brief second back at him, then it was gone, leaving only red–rimmed tiredness. He remembered the blood that had soaked the fine wool of Carlyle's jacket, saw the violence that still surged beneath the charm and elegant manners. He didn't ask again about the night's activities.

As if Sharpe had never asked the question, Carlyle swirled the liquid in his glass around and asked inconsequently, "Do you like fish for breakfast?"

"What, kippers?"

"More like a local fresh–water trout. They're quite good, I think that's what I can smell cooking."

And indeed, the mouth–watering aroma of baking fish was being carried on a slight breeze through the floor–length window. Sharpe went over and with a brief glance at Carlyle, stepped out onto the balcony and peered down into the courtyard, where he saw one of the women turning the fish as they cooked on a metal griddle over the fire. It was very quiet, most of the men asleep or about business elsewhere. Another woman was gutting more of the same fish, readying them for when the first batch were done, which from the smell would be quite soon.

Carlyle appeared at his side, looking out into the courtyard. Sharpe leant on the crumbling stone wall that edged the balcony and watched his companion obliquely. He wondered what Carlyle would do if he kissed him. The thought startled him. He frowned slightly, wondering why such an intimate gesture should be so possible with this man when it had with no other. So possible and so unashamedly arousing. He watched a strong hand where it rested lightly against the pale stone, and wanted to touch it. To bring it to his lips.

The need invoked a faint sense of treachery. This was an enemy, how could he feel like this? He considered the fact, then mentally shrugged it away. Ducos was an enemy, Carlyle was a prospective ally. And besides, at this particular moment, Sharpe knew he wouldn't have cared what Carlyle was. He knew only what he felt, knew only the truthfulness of it.

Carlyle turned and met his look. There was something behind the immediately offered smile. Some shadow. Sharpe straightened. "What's up?"

"Are you always so direct?"

"Ay." Sharpe gave a crooked, feral grin. "When I want."

"Well," Carlyle took a deep breath, "I want to examine you. Make sure I didn't hurt you."

"Hah?" Sharpe hid his disconcertion in the exclamation. "Well, I can tell you, I'm fine. There's no more bleeding."

"Jesu? Then why are you moving as if someone's shoved a poker up your arse."

"Because I bloody well ache, why d'you think?" Vexed, and none too keen on being left vulnerable, Sharpe retreated back into the room, irritated when Carlyle followed at his heel. He considered arguing, then settled on changing the subject. "And should lords use language like that?"

"As you once remarked, lords can do what they want."

"I still can't believe that you're one of them — one of our illustrious aristocracy."

Carlyle winced. "Don't worry about it, I should think my father in his grave shares the same problem. Sometimes I do myself." He shrugged, pushing away unwelcome thoughts. "And what about you, you're clearly no lord — if I may say so." He bowed, making no doubt of the compliment. "Yet you are an officer."

"I was raised from the ranks. I fit about as well as a square peg in a round hole, I know that. But I'm a bloody good soldier, which is just as well, as it's all I know how to do."

"You are so different from how I imagined the day you rode into here and tried to parley with me. I thought you would be a typical hard–nosed English bastard, and instead..."

"I'm an untypical hard–nosed English bastard."

They both smiled, and Carlyle answered, "If you will."

They were both silenced by a knock on the door. "Breakfast, go and sit down."

Sharpe looked around and decided on the bed. He carefully lowered himself onto its edge and was quite at ease when Carlyle returned carrying a tray laden with food.

"You did say you were hungry."

"I did." Sharpe eyed the food being set before him and raised both brows. "Is this for both of us?"

"Yes. Though I can always call for more if it isn't enough."

"Don't fret, this'll be plenty." Sharpe smiled, then, when Carlyle seemed to be content to hover, tutted. "And sit down yourself, eat before it gets cold."

Carlyle settled himself as if preparing to dine at Carlton House, then with a certain ceremony he picked up a fine, spouted pot and poured what could only be coffee into two bone–china cups.

Sharpe closed his eyes and groaned as the aroma hit.

Carlyle smiled, happy at the result of his experiment. "Real French coffee."

Sharpe opened his eyes and taking the fragile cup enquired, "The colonel's?"

"Who else." Carlyle raised his cup. "To the French."

"To their belongings, anyway?" Sharpe drank, the taste exploding in his mouth, delicious, hot and heady, as good as he remembered. Even the feel of the thin china against his lips was so rare a sensation that it seemed to add an extra dimension of pleasure; a dimension unfound in his usual world where acorns and barley were ground to be drunk out of enamel–chipped tin mugs. He felt some of the greyness of exhaustion lift away and suddenly he had energy not just to be hungry, but actually to eat. He broke a round loaf in two and offered half to Carlyle. "Your breakfast, Milord?"

"Thank you." And with a sketched bow, the bread was taken from his hands, an open smile given as exchange.

They ate in silence, chewing earnestly, both fired by a ravenous hunger that needed no conversation. When the simple meal was over and the plates piled on the tray by the door, Carlyle relaxed into the bed and sighed with pleasure. He watched Sharpe as he finished the coffee, waiting until the cup was empty and set aside before asking, "Is there anything else you want?"

Sharpe looked up, raising an eye–brow. "Well, I couldn't eat another thing, that's for certain. But I wouldn't mind something to wear other than this sheet."

"Shame, for you look good in it."

"Very funny. But I don't care what it looks like, it's bloody uncomfortable."

Carlyle stood up and walked across the room to rummage through a vast chest that stood half–hidden by the desk. "How about these, they look about right."

Sharpe picked up the tail of his sheet and walked across the room. "Whose were they."

Carlyle looked blank. "You know, I've no idea. I suppose they must have been the Frenchman's but to be honest, we've looted from so many places that I can't remember. I just kept what looked like it might fit, or be useful." He registered mild surprise. "Does it matter?"

"No, I was just curious." The clothes were simple, a pair of cream breeches and a white shirt, but they must have been made from the very finest silk. Sharpe took them from the offering hands and held the rich fabrics for a moment. Then he turned, slid from the sheet and with strange modesty began to dress while facing away from the kneeling man.

A hand stopped him; curving against his skin it took his breath away. He didn't think his body could react, he was tired, worn by the strain of the past hours, days. Yet the single touch irrefutably stirred his blood, in a way that almost no other ever had. He shivered, then whispered with eyes half–closed, "Don't do that."

"Let me. I only want to make sure you are all right."

Sharpe twisted, looking back over his shoulder. "Only?"

"Well... Let's say first then."

Sharpe sighed. "If you must." Giving up on trying to put on any clothing, he stepped out of the breeches and walking over to the bed carefully laid the garments across its foot–board, taking a moment to be mildly surprised at the antics the cherubs carved there were getting up to. Striving for ease he turned and saw that the other man hadn't moved. "What are you doing?"

"Watching you."

"Ah." Distinctly discomfited, Sharpe couldn't say anything.

Then Carlyle stood up and walked intently across the room. In the filtered daylight his hair was lighter than Sharpe's, his skin paler, though scattered across with freckles. He carried a small container in his hand and placed it on a table beside the bed.

"I won't bite."

"Really?"

"Well, not now." There was a shadow of amusement; of what might be. "Lie down."

Warily, Sharpe sat on the edge of the bed, then laid himself flat, belly down. It felt uncommonly embarrassing.

Carlyle ran a comforting hand down the scars to stroke the rounded curve of one buttock. When a swathe of skin lifted in a wave of goose–bumps he apologised, then went on with impersonal efficiency to inspect and salve the abused part of Sharpe's anatomy.

"We tore you, that's all. The salve will aid the healing."

"Have you had to do this before?" Sharpe made a small noise in the back of his throat but the discomfort was brief and almost immediately he began to feel ease.

"One of my men was raped by a group of the French. He lived for three days, but nothing I could do would save him."

"I'm sorry." Sharpe turned his face and their eyes met.

"I might hate most Englishmen, but I hate all Frenchmen a lot more." He stood from where he had crouched on the floor, letting Sharpe right himself before touching a finger to his face. "Remember that."

Puzzled by the other man's intensity, Sharpe could only nod, though from the look on the sombre face he knew it was clearly not enough and he held his voice steady to answer. "I'll remember."

It was enough; muscles that Carlyle hadn't consciously tightened, eased and he stood straighter, at once lighter, as if he had been released from some burden. His hand relinquished its light contact and he began a different conversation. "If I offered you a choice between a guided tour of my kingdom or sleep, which would you prefer?"

The mention of sleep was too much, and Sharpe almost split his jaw with a wrenching yawn.

"I think that answers that?" Carlyle tugged at his cravat, pulling the ends from his shirt and unwinding it from around his neck, before beginning to unfasten the small pearl buttons of his shirt. "Get in then."

"In here?" Sharpe touched the bed with its fine linen sheets and ornate brocade cover.

"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor, whatever Wellington makes you do." The shirt was off and the breeches and stockings followed suit. "Besides, I'm tired too."

Sharpe could see that; the smudges under the long, curious eyes were as dark as bruises.

Naked, Carlyle stood at the side of the bed and placed his hands on his hips. "I'll behave, I promise."

Sharpe eyed the long body, seeing the weight of muscle, the understated power. His skin was smooth, dark honey blended with cream, even his face somehow only lightly tanned by the years of living in the dry heat and sunlight of the south. A dusting of dark–gold hair arrowed from belly to groin, leading to a cock that, even in repose, was of admirable dimensions.

"See, it's as tired as I am." Carlyle touched a hand to his groin and curving a finger under his cock–head lifted it in demonstration. But despite its owner's faith, it gave a definite pulse, growing slightly in his hand. He dropped it in consternation.

Sharpe met the wide eyes and could only grin; won over by the so sweet and unlikely appeal that gentle laughter was the only reply. Pulling back the covers he crawled inside, leaving Carlyle to tug the weightier ones away, leaving just the thin linen sheet to lie across him.

The mattress was even and firm, the sheets unbelievably soft. He sighed in a moment of total hedonism, gently arching his spine to feel the play of fabric against his skin. And coloured as he saw Carlyle watching him.

"Don't." Carlyle hurriedly slid inside the sheets and touched his hand to the curve of Sharpe's shoulder. "There's no shame in appreciating any of this. None at all."

Sharpe reached out in turn and ran a finger down the line of breast–bone and belly, finding a brief home in the warmth of Carlyle's groin. "Not even this?" He found the grace to smile as he took his hand away, uncertain curiosity making him wonder, "I thought you didn't approve?"

"Pleasure is a simple thing." Carlyle began as if answering a different, simpler question. Then he met Sharpe's eyes. "When I was a child I learned not to be afraid of it. However, what I have been afraid of is myself."

"Yourself? But your father..."

Carlyle interrupted the confusion. "I gave him as an excuse, because to tell you I was scared seemed ridiculous. I damned my father long ago." The words were spoken as a quiet, elementary statement. "I've never had any problem in finding delight in the pleasures of the senses; why shouldn't I, or anyone? And as for finding delight in bed with one of my own kind, what is so different about that? I've rejected my father's thinking about everything from the Roman faith he clung to so tenaciously, to politics, to the choice of colours that I wear. Yet for years I never questioned the truth of that one particular lesson he taught me, never doubted that loving the wrong person would see me damned. In all the years since I left England I've hardly thought about that side of myself so deep had I buried it. Then you came here, and I don't think I'll ever think the same way again." He paused, considering, but there were no more words. "Can you understand?"

"I think so." Sharpe was quiet for a moment, then he shifted slightly, resting his fingers against Carlyle's, attempting in a moment's explanation to make all of this understood, to say in words to this man all the things he had never explained to another person. "The way I grew up, there was nothing, no pleasure. If I slept on a dry bit of floor I was lucky; if the man who was paying for the use of my throat didn't try and slit it, then I counted that a good day, the very best I could hope for. I've had to learn to enjoy whatever pleasure I can find, wherever I find it."

"You never felt it wrong?"

"To bed with another man? No, though I swore I'd never have to sell myself ever again." Sharpe sighed, his eyes distant, remembering. "When I was a boy it kept me alive, now...well sometimes I feel it does the same now. Harper taught me, taught me more than I'll ever be able to repay. He gave me so much, made me learn that there can be more to coupling with another man than a quick, joyless fuck." Sharpe gave a soft, embarrassed laugh, suddenly uncomfortable with the depth of his own disclosures. "I can bed with you, no problem. Getting to enjoy the sheets and the feather mattress without feeling as if I've stolen them might take a bit longer."

"I was the one who stole them?"

"That's different."

"For goodness sake, why?"

"Because you're used to the best things. Even here, where the walls are falling down around your ears, you've surrounded yourself with possessions I could never even dream of owning." Briefly he wondered what Harper would say about the gilt–encrusted bed, and almost laughed. He'd hate it almost as much as he would surely hate its owner. "I can't imagine what it was like, growing up to take comfort as requirement rather than luxury."

"I've known hardship. Truly." He poked Sharpe who was busy trying not to grin. "I might have grown up with every luxury that money had the power to buy, but after that, well I suppose you could say that some years were more difficult than others."

Sharpe knew the words were the truth. Carlyle had an edge that luxury alone could never bring. It somehow made everything easier, emphasised their similarities whilst making nothing of their differences. A pampered lord would have been nothing. And Carlyle was never that. Sharpe nodded slowly, a slight frown pulling his brows together. "Perhaps you only see how good things are when you've seen how bad they can also be."

"Very true." Carlyle pulled Sharpe to him, bringing them intimately close. His eyes were very dark, the pupils expanded until they consumed the brown; the opaque darkness touched in their depths by a lingering fever of madness. His voice was a soft whisper. "I've seen into hell — maybe even been there — yet I'm not sure I care any longer."

"Hell is something you fight your way out of."

"Fight." Carlyle twisted the word in his mouth, tasting it, clearly not caring for its flavour. "We've both fought too much. What about love?" At his own words, Carlyle was suddenly lost, confused; a shiver that started in his spine spread to run almost imperceptibly through them both.

Sharpe shook his head, in doubt rather than denial. "I don't know."

"Nor do I. How can we?" But before the words had all left his mouth he brought their lips together and kissed gently, sighing as Sharpe responded, his tongue flicking almost shyly in greeting. The embrace, the meeting of body to body, of breath to breath left Carlyle blind, lost for an age in the delicacy, the strange, exotic sweetness of the kiss. Here there was no difficulty of understanding; here the silent language needed no interpretation, left no conflict, no impossible demands. Seductive as water in a desert as wide as the sky, it was seemingly infinite, stretching the boundaries of who and where until they threatened to snap like sun–baked clay.

Finally, it was Carlyle who pulled back, gradually drawing away until he could breath, until he could focus, and give that cat's smile that smiled without seeming to. "This is no sort of fight, is it?"

"No." Sharpe slowly shook his head. "Of what I might want from you, to fight is not part of it. I promise."

Carlyle held quite still, then was suddenly suffused with almost incandescent delight. Lifting his hand he stretched its fingers wide and spread them around the curve of Sharpe's head, thumb rubbing absently over the dark bruise that marred the jaw–line. He whispered, as if to speak loudly would shatter the air, shatter the crystal shell of his own longing. "This isn't wrong. It can't be."

Sharpe began to speak, but broke off, almost dislocating his jaw in an effort to hide the sudden yawn of tiredness. Then he tried again, "I suppose th..."

Carlyle placed a finger across his lips and commanded silence. "Shush. Go to sleep — we'll talk later. There'll be time."

Time... Sharpe frowned and wondered where such a rare commodity could be found. And if by some miracle they found time, where would it all lead, where would this so deep captivation take them? If it could lead anywhere at all.

He yawned again, and gave up the unequal battle with exhaustion. It was as if all reason had been leached from his thoughts; all reason, all clarity drained away.

Carlyle pushed a wayward strand of hair from where it was falling into Sharpe's clouding eyes. "Go to sleep."

Giving up, Sharpe nodded. There was no energy left to argue. Not now. Not when the world was clean and without pain, and when confusion and worry could be gladly consigned to tomorrow.

As he watched, Carlyle closed his eyes and seemingly without any preparation was asleep.

Balanced on the edge between waking and oblivion, Sharpe watched his still face, seeing for the first time that he was younger than he looked, younger than his experience allowed. In the pallor of sleep the freckles were very clear, scattering haphazardly across the strong nose, the smooth cheeks, the strength of character written in skin and bone. He tried to see the attraction, the spark that set him alight with need; but there was nothing visible to the eye, no specific beauty, no uncommon feature to fix the eye or heart. Then neither had Harper. All the women in his adult life, the ones he had been drawn to and the ones he had paid for, had been beauties of one sort or another, the men quite different. Harper and Carlyle. Harper with his gentle hands and uncanny prescience of his Captain's every need, every whim. And Carlyle...with what?

A world of possibilities — if time allowed.

Inspired by a brief moment of folly, he fought off the tenacious fingers of sleep to bend forward and lay a gentle kiss on the sleeping lips. Then laughed faintly to himself, mocking the sentiment in the freedom of silence. To be lying here, with a man who was his captor, who had almost had him killed and to be kissing him like some love–struck boy. Foolish. He should be escaping, running.

Instead, he twisted onto his side and settled his head into the pillow. He wondered if he could sleep, for despite the tiredness that dragged at every muscle, that weighed at eyes and limbs his thoughts were restless. Shifting again he sighed and then shivered as a wide hand slipped about his waist and pulled until he was set against the solid body behind him. A throaty voice whispered sleepily, "Go to sleep."

And surprising himself, he did.

* * * * *

Harper was supervising the loading of the musket cases onto a line of pack–horses. He cursed and ordered the soldiers about, his impatience lending uncharacteristic acerbity to the few words he did choose to use.

Hogan sauntered over and watched, his hat tilted at a jaunty angle over his eyes. He waited until his countryman had a moment, then called him over.

"Sir?"

"Well, Sergeant, you're nearly ready to be off."

"Yes, sir, as soon as I can get these cases loaded properly." He broke off to shout at one of the red–coats who was fumbling awkwardly with a strap. "Jesus, you'd think they still needed their mothers to do everything for them?"

"Some of them do, Pat, some of them do."

They watched for a while, but all seemed to be going well, the shouts and noise of the camp rising and ebbing around them. In the end, Hogan shifted his weight and looked up at Harper. "I know you told us what you thought we wanted to hear, but tell me the truth." Hogan smiled. "I'm not his lordship, I won't be shocked."

"No, sir, I suppose you wouldn't. But I told you the truth, Captain Sharpe is in good spirits and can't wait to get back." Unfortunately, the slightly stoical tinge to the words gave him away.

"The truth, Pat. How's he getting on with Carlyle?"

"Well."

Hogan sighed. "Come on Pat, this is worse than drawing teeth."

"They seemed to like each other very much. Sir."

"In the way that you and Captain Sharpe like each other?"

Harper flinched.

"Don't worry yourself, I haven't told on you, and I have no intention of doing so. But it's my job to know things, so I do." He gave a shrug along with the explanation. "So do you think it was like that?"

"A bit. But more so, I think." He took a deep breath and looked every where but at the officer by his side.

"Good."

"Good?" Harper turned and glared uneasily at Hogan, comprehension gradually growing in his mind. "You mean that was what you wanted?"

"In a way."

"You bastard, you mean you've used him like a whore?" Harper hissed the words, trying to keep from shouting, from blasting his fury to the world.

"Not like a whore, come now." Hogan was unperturbed by the fury at his side. "More like bait. Sharpe can look after himself."

"Ay, he can at that. But sometimes he just doesn't care about himself." Harper remembered the strange behaviour that had been puzzling his mind ever since his precipitous removal from the stronghold. Sharpe was in too deep, he was sure of it. "And what if he's the one to be trapped, what if Carlyle has turned into the succulent morsel of bait. What if Sharpe takes a bite of that?"

"He's loyal, he'll come back."

"What if he finds something he's more loyal to than an army that treats him as nothing better than a piece of meat." Harper pressed close, his fury written clear across his wide face. "What then?"

"It won't happen. You'll be there to bring him back, won't you Sergeant?"

"You bastard?" Harper spoke the words soft and slow, imbuing them with a true depth of meaning. "What's Carlyle to you that you want him so badly?"

"Mine." Hogan tilted his hat until it was straight. "I don't let go of my people easily. Sharpe knows that." He mocked a salute with one finger, the warning as easily delivered as a threat. "Time to be off. Bring them both back for me." And he wandered off.

"And pigs might bloody well fly, you bastard." And still cursing under his breath, Harper went back to the horses, his mind full of a thousand different thoughts, none of them giving him any ease at all.

It was when he had almost finished the task of checking each and every strap that he turned away from the last pack–horse and walked straight into the Chosen Men.

"Evening, lads." Harper eyed them warily, seeing the polished rifles slung across each of their shoulders, their uniforms darkened almost to black in the growing shadows, the resolve that set each face. Trying not to sigh he picked on the one standing nearest. "Well then, Harris, what's all this then?"

Harris took a deep breath and with a quick look around at his fellow Riflemen, met Harper's eyes. "We want to come with you."

"Why's that now, think I can't manage a few horses on my own?"

"It's not the horses we're worried about." This from Hagman, the oldest of the company and by far the best shot. He stood just behind Harris, his long, lugubrious face set in lines of determination. "It's the Captain."

"We think it'd be safer if a few of us went along as insurance." Harris, the dreamer who was better educated than most officers, shuffled his feet. "In case there's any trouble."

"Lads, the trouble here started when Major bloody Hogan decided the captain was the right man for the job. He should never have gone traipsing up in the mountains at all, never mind get caught like he did. But," he picked at a splinter that had lodged in his finger, "it happened. And it's my job to go and sort it out. According to Hogan, the Spanish — or rather their bastard Englishman leader — will be honourable about this. And he's usually right, you have to give the wily old sod that."

"But what if he's wrong, what if you need help?" Harris was the one to ask, but they all nodded.

Harper looked at the men in their ragged uniforms, seeing a group who had been made more than sum of their individual abilities by the leadership of one man. It made him feel good to see how much they cared; made him proud.

"Couldn't we sort of head in the same direction? Like a sort of rear–guard." Perkins looked around, his young face twisted in concern, before his eyes ended up back on the big Irishman. "Pretend we're not really with you, but sort of be there, Sarge?"

"No lad. These bastards have the whole area covered. If you're coming, you come with me." He waited until the clamour had died down. "But not all of you. We don't want them to think we're planning an invasion." He took a deep breath and hoped that this was the right decision. "Volunteers?"

A forest of hands appeared in front of him.

"Jesus. All right, three only. You can pretend I need you to manage the horses. Hagman, I might need your skill. Cooper, come on, you contrary so–and–so, the Captain'll know he's home when he hears you griping. And Harris. Have you all sat on a horse before?"

There came a chorus of wary assent.

"Good, for though we're walking most of the way there, we might need to get away quickly. That's all. The rest of you go off and pretend you don't know what's happening."

"Sarge?"

"No Perkins. You stay here and look after Ramona. I trust you with her, make sure she's safe should anything happen."

"Yes, Sarge."

"Right then." Harper watched the grins that stuck to the faces of the men he'd chosen. "Come on, this isn't a bloody picnic, we need to be well on our way before night. Let's get moving?"

* * * * *

Sharpe came out of a dream of absolute luxury and woke to find it come true. He stretched his limbs and sighed as the soft sheets did nothing but caress his skin. Everything was clean, his body ached less than it had since he could remember, and from somewhere the tantalising aroma of coffee was filling the air.

"Good evening."

He opened his eyes to see Carlyle standing at the side of the bed, fully dressed in dark elegance, a steaming cup held lightly between both hands. His words finally sifted through the dregs of sleep. "Good evening?"

"Mmm, we slept most of the day away."

"No wonder I feel better." Sharpe sat up carefully, but nothing twinged awkwardly. He sighed happily, stretching his spine in appreciation. "Is there some of that for me?"

"By the bed."

Sharpe reached for the indicated cup and took a sip. It was just as good as before.

"Hungry?"

Settling back against the head–board he considered. "Not yet." He was quite content, sipping the coffee, watching Carlyle.

"Nor am I." Carlyle held still for a long moment,then turned away.

Sharpe watched the easy walk, studying the way the tailored riding–clothes fitted his tall form. From boots to collar everything was darkest black, the fabric matte, reflecting no light. He looked like a sombre minister from some obscure, penitential church.

There was great pleasure to be found in watching freely, Sharpe found. Without those intense eyes fixed upon him he could learn this simple pleasure. Learn it and try not to become addicted.

Carlyle had placed his cup down on his desk and was sifting through the papers that were strewn in abundance across its surface. As Sharpe watched it became clear that this was all pretence, for almost immediately he gave in, to lean with both hands on the old wood, clearly seeing nothing of what lay in front of his eyes.

From the bed, Sharpe watched the troubled curve of spine and the tense, bunched line of shoulder, and wondered. From sudden, overwhelming happiness that had transformed so rapidly into sleep, to this. Reaching sideways he put his empty cup down on the table beside the bed, but didn't make any other move, his eyes fixed on the tall, still form that seemed to have forgotten his existence.

The capriciousness didn't confuse him, he recognised its similarity to the melancholy that on occasion marred his own thoughts and actions; though in truth, recognising the problem was not the same as solving it. He frowned, long fingers picking idly at a loose thread in the brocade cover that draped over his legs. His own fits of misery rarely lasted long, though he realised with a quick stab of guilt that the reason for their short duration was because Harper had successfully learned to banish them.

What Harper could do for him, he could certainly do for Carlyle.

Couldn't he?

There was only one way to know. Decision quickly made he threw off the covers, eased himself to his feet and slowly padded across the room, bare feet quite silent on the thick carpet, shoulders squared with all the determination of a new recruit walking into his first battle. Not once did he question why he needed to do this. Not once. His entire being was now simply acting on instinct. An instinct he would have poured scorn upon if anyone had suggested he possessed it.

Sharpe reached Carlyle's side far too quickly. Standing close, just to the side of the tense figure, he waited. When the other man didn't move, didn't seem to even know he was there, Sharpe bit his lip. To his intense embarrassment, he felt himself flush. Wanting to walk away, needing to stay, he fought the awkwardness and touched a hand to Carlyle's sleeve. "What's the matter?"

Scarcely turning his head, Carlyle frowned. "Why?"

"You like staring at that pile of papers do you? Trying to find something you lost last Easter?" There was a barely discernable pause and a slightly more audible change of tone. "Do you want to come back to bed?"

Returning from the distant parts he had been staring into, Carlyle frowned and clearly didn't believe the evidence of his own ears. "I'm sorry?"

"Bed. I thought you might like to come to bed. With me." He defined the statement in case there was any doubt.

"With you?" Distracted, Carlyle didn't seem to be coping very well with the conversation.

"Ay." Sharpe cleared his throat and tried to consider his nakedness an asset. Seduction wasn't nearly as easy as it looked. He shrugged, "I thought it might help."

Carlyle appeared to catch up. "Oh, it would. But in what way exactly might you mean?"

"Well..." About to attempt an necessarily awkward explanation of Harper and his varied skills, and how an interpretation of them might apply to this particular situation, Sharpe caught the glint of humour in the warm brown eyes. "You bastard." He grinned ruefully.

"No, many things but not that." Carlyle straightened and smiled without counterfeit. "That's the kindest offer I've ever been made. Thank you. But I promise you I'll be fine." He ran an eye down the naked body that he suddenly seemed to see clearly. "Not that I'm not tempted..."

"Well then." Sharpe ran his hand down until it rested awkwardly in larger fingers. Curious to know that this was the first time he had ever held hands with another man; held hands as if with a woman. In many ways it was far more intimate than sex. "I was only trying to..."

"I know very well what you were trying to do." Carlyle moved until he stood within the circle of Sharpe's breathing. "But you don't have to use yourself as medicine for my ills." He sighed, tightening the grip of his hand. "I want you too much to just use you, I found that out last night."

Sharpe thought of Harper and the countless times he had fallen willingly into the strength and oblivion to be found in those arms. He frowned. Had that been one–sided? The question worried at him. "It can't be using me if I offer myself, surely?"

"Do you want to lie with me, now this moment?"

"I could."

Carlyle took hold of Sharpe's arms, near to the elbows, to draw him close. "You could." He breathed in the smell of clean sweat and could have easily been seduced back to between the sheets. Instead he asked, "Is that enough?"

"It always has been."

"And so for me. But this is different. Think about it. I want more from you than your body, and I think you want the same of me." He held very still, very intense, a single line deepening between the straight line of his brows. "I tried not to watch you when you slept. I left you to see to various things; I went and talked to my men, checked on the wounded, almost went to count supplies, yet all I could think about was you. I came back and you were still sleeping; I could have taken you there and then. I wanted to." He ran a finger over the arching, elegant line of bones that caged Sharpe's throat, feeling warmth and life and the insistent beat of blood that ran close to the fine skin. He murmured, almost as if to himself, in an aside to the air and the angels, "I could touch you forever."

Sharpe sighed in confusion. "Then lie with me."

"I will. Later." He found a scar and rubbed a finger against it. "There is no need to hurry anything."

Except I have to return to the British lines. Except that this is all we have. But Sharpe held the thoughts to himself, trusting in the other's judgement, knowing his own to be clouded, unsafe. "What then?"

"We talk. Perhaps we eat." Languid, soft as the oldest silk, Carlyle's voice transformed such mundane matters into errantry and adventure.

Sharpe gasped as a sure hand touched his breast, skimming over his nipple to leave it standing in a small hard bud. Finding a breath of air he asked huskily, "I thought we were going to talk?"

"We are. But that doesn't mean we can't think about other things."

"Doesn't it?" And before the other man had time to react, Sharpe had him pushed against the wall and was soundly kissing his about to protest mouth. After a moment Sharpe backed off slightly, his hand still keeping the strong body still. They were both aroused, Carlyle so obviously so that Sharpe grinned wickedly. "There, that should remind you." Letting go he turned and walked back towards the bed. "I'll get dressed then." And without further preamble he picked up the breeches that were draped over the end of the bed and began to slip into them.

Carlyle strangled on five different things to say. In the end he gave up and laughed, a real belly–laugh that had him leaning weakly against the wall as reflex tears ran down his cheeks.

Caught by surprise, Sharpe turned and watched the unlikely sight, his brows raising until they almost disappeared, for of all the things this man had seemed capable of, helpless mirth had not seemed one of them.

In the end, Carlyle wiped his eyes on the back of one hand, and tried to sober himself. He steadied slowly, though a wide grin stayed firmly attached to his face. Finally he stepped away from the support of the wall and weakly sat down on a corner of the desk, sighing as he did so.

"Better?" Sharpe asked.

"Much, thank you."

And he did indeed look as if some strain had been washed away by the laughter. Sharpe hesitated, then stayed where he was, finishing the fastening of his breeches.

Somewhere, the day had disappeared. The sun had vanished behind the high stone wall of the fortress, leaving the room in muted shadow. It was not quite dusk, not quite day. Sounds filtered in from the courtyard; the chatter of men and women talking, of occasional laughter. From the air came the distant noise of various birds vociferously saluting the arrival of evening.

Sharpe stood quite still to breath in the peace. And suddenly knew himself to be content.

Without design his eyes strayed to Carlyle.

And hurriedly he turned back to the bed, frowning at the shirt still draped over its foot–board. Picking it up, he ran it through his hands, the clean, white fabric flowing like a river around his fingers. In all his life he had never worn clothes as rich as these. The garment was so different from the patched and grey excuse for a shirt that he habitually wore under his uniform that it was hard to believe both were basically the same; both clothing.

"Put it on, it won't bite."

Deaf to his companion's approach, Sharpe started, turning his head with a small sound of surprise. Carlyle was at his side. He appeared to be intent.

"I was going to."

"Then stop playing with it and put it on."

Sharpe paused, but his only reply was to slip the billowing folds over his head. He pushed his arms through, emerging slightly flushed, trying not to react as the sensuously heavy fabric settled around him in a whispering slide of silk against skin. Concentrating, he began to button the cuffs, then silently relinquished the task when his fingers were brushed away and Carlyle took over, slowly fastening the buttons, smoothing the fall of ruffle with its narrow banding of lace over the warmth of skin.

Sharpe moved his head, feeling the unfastened collar high against the back of his neck, aware of the deep opening at the front where, for want of stud or stock, it fell open almost to his belly.

He looked at Carlyle, who only reached up to smooth the back of his fingers across the elegant line where folds fell from the straight set of shoulder.

Sharpe tried not to shiver. "I'd feel better in my uniform."

"Better?" Carlyle raised a brow. "Really?"

"Well, maybe not better. More at home." He cleared his throat. "More me."

Carlyle half closed his eyes and considered, tilting his head slightly back to observe more clearly the man before him. "You look very well to me. Nobody would guess that you weren't born to wear the finest silks."

"Don't make me laugh?" Sharpe bent his head, his fingers plucking at the shirt. "Besides, I know I wasn't."

"Does that matter? Why shouldn't you get accustomed to such frivolities, tell me that?"

"I don't know." I just can't...

A light breeze came in through the open casement, shimmering past the wisps of vine that hung down to shade the balcony, to catch at the supple cloth, its faint breath enough to mould the silk to every hard curve and plane of Sharpe's slim body, every soft fold a stark contrast to the severity of lithe muscle.

Carlyle sighed. "I could certainly become accustomed to it. It looks a damn sight better than that rag I peeled off you the other night. What that was suited for I don't know — straining cheese maybe?" He grinned. "This on the other hand is definitely meant to be worn, and delighted in."

Sharpe found himself once again fingering the fabric, feeling the way it lay against his skin, cool and utterly sensual. It felt almost too good, as if it was an accomplice to his seduction. After this, how did you go back to sleeping on rocky ground in the rain, to never being clean, to wearing patched clothing until it fell to pieces at which point you added yet more patches? He was a soldier. A real soldier, not some primped toy in a uniform all gold–lace and bullion epaulettes, scared to step in a puddle in case dirty water muddied his stockings. This shirt belonged to that figure, not plain Captain Richard Sharpe.

"It won't change anything. It is only cloth."

Meeting Carlyle's eyes, Sharpe acknowledged his perception with a wry shrug. "Are you sure?"

"Certain."

Sharpe gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I feel stupid, worrying over some gaudy piece of French officer's uniform — if it was his."

"Most of the good things I possess are." Carlyle sat on the edge of the bed to watch as long fingers began to tuck the ends of the shirt in. "At least he'd enough money to buy more, even after I'd finished with him."

"As if that mattered to you?"

"But it did."

Sharpe glanced side–ways, his narrowed eyes betraying his disbelief. "Who are you, Robin Hood?"

"No. But I don't steal for the sake of it." He had the grace to give a rueful twist to his mouth. "At least, not very often."

Sharpe finished with his shirt–tails and decided to try and ignore what he was wearing. "I've stolen more things than I can remember."

"In the army?"

"Sometimes." He shrugged again. "Sometimes it's steal or die. But more when I was a kid. I was good at picking pockets. Got the right fingers." He waved a hand in the air. "See that, I've a long third finger. There are men who scour the streets looking for kids with just that. You see when that finger's more or less a length with the middle, the hand can be in and out of a pocket before the owner of the purse even knows it's there. You can pick pockets without it, but having this certainly makes it easier."

Carlyle examined the displayed hand carefully and indeed, the two fingers were almost of a length. In fact the whole hand was a surprise, elegant and quite graceful with long bones and strong sinews under golden skin. It was more fitting to grace a musical instrument than a sword, let alone a rifle. He tried to imagine it picking a gentleman's pocket, but shook his head. "Didn't you ever get caught?" Carlyle was clearly fascinated.

"Once or twice."

"And you've still got both hands?"

"I bargained with other assets. I was canny even then."

"You mean your body?"

"Ay. Having a nice arse got me out of trouble more than once."

"Such modesty."

Sharpe rounded on him, angered by the mocking, amused tone. "You think I wanted to live like that? To whore and cheat and steal to keep myself alive? Well, I didn't, though I learned well the lessons of the whorehouse where I was born." He glared.

"I'm sorry." The fair head tilted in acknowledgement.

"Right."

"And you have got a nice arse. I noticed it long since."

Sharpe began to reply, then, with an exasperated sigh, gave in and sat down next to the other man on the bed. "Idiot."

"No, just very observant. You've got a beautiful back as well."

"Stop it?" Sharpe was embarrassed, at sea and lost with the unlikely compliments.

"But you have, so why shouldn't I tell you so?"

Sharpe gave a helpless shrug, trying to find why, then answered. "Because I'm not a woman."

"So, only women can be told how fine they are. Mmm." He ran a finger down his thigh, considering. "No, I'm sorry, but I don't see the difference. A compliment doesn't make a catamite of you."

"I know that?" He really did have no doubt that Carlyle saw him as an equal.

"Then don't shy away from them. I'm not given to dispersing them lightly, I can promise you that."

"I believe you. But believe me when I tell you that I'm not used to receiving them."

"Not even from Harper?"

Sharpe took in a long breath, then let it out heavily. "No. Lovers talk like that — Harper and I aren't lovers."

"Yet you sleep together."

"Ay." He twisted, curling one leg onto the bed so he could rest both arms across its knee. "We do a lot of other things too, care for each other, he's even been known to sew on my buttons when they fall off. Yet he's not my mother, or my servant. He's my sergeant."

"Neatly dropped into a labelled compartment." Carlyle nodded lazily, his easy languor belying the sudden seriousness of his words. "What compartment am I in?"

"Friend." Sharpe met the intense brown eyes and smiled slowly, almost shyly. "Lover. What else I don't know. Yet."

"What else I don't care about. Lover." Carlyle tasted the word. "And we haven't even bedded together yet."

"Not yet."

They smiled together as if at a shared secret.

"But we will." Carlyle reached across the gap between them and touched the pulse that beat against the prison of Sharpe's throat. "We will..."

He moved closer, eyes, already smoky with need, fixed to where Sharpe's lips glistened wetly, just having been licked.

Then someone rapped loudly on the door.

"Tell them to go away." Sharpe didn't recognise his own voice.

"I can't." Groaning softly under his breath, Carlyle stood, and awkwardly rearranging himself as he went, walked over to the door. He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Sharpe time to recover, before he returned with a stocky man bearing a tray. "Miguel thought I might be hungry."

"Nice of him." Sharpe sat still and watched as the dark–skinned Spaniard returned the inspection with close–faced suspicion. He was really very glad to be dressed.

"Mmm. Miguel, baja la bandeja."

The instruction was obeyed, the tray placed carefully on the bed, the dark eyes scarcely leaving Sharpe.

"Todo va bien?"

"Si." The Spaniard stood straight and finally paid his commander some attention. "Los hombres estas ceando despues de anoche, la majoria estara acostada antes del anochecer."

"Bien." Carlyle nodded. "Gracias por la camidas. Eso es todo."

Without another word, Miguel left, wiping his hands together as he went.

Sharpe watched him until the door closed. He grimaced, "I don't think he approves of me very much."

"Miguel doesn't approve of anyone very much. But he's a good man. Despite the fact that he wanted to have you killed."

"Really? What about the ransom, didn't that interest him?"

"I sometimes believe he lives only to kill. Muskets can always be obtained somehow, if you don't care where they've come from." He gave a short, exasperated sigh. "He's short tempered and nearly gave your sergeant apoplexy, but for some reason he cares for me."

"Good." Sharpe nodded, sure that Carlyle needed someone. "How did he upset Harper?"

"By hitting you when you were unconscious."

"So it was him, how charming. You know, I could get quite upset about that myself."

Carlyle moved across the two paces that lay between him and the seated man. "I stopped him."

"Thank you kindly." Sharpe gave a mocking half–salute, then met Carlyle's eyes, his thoughts toying with the strange question of how he and Harper had survived. "What did Harper do?"

"Saw sense."

"Thank Christ for that." Sharpe paused, then nodded in the direction of the departed Spaniard. "Pat didn't have a go at him?"

"Thankfully no. Especially as of all my men, Miguel has a unique way with French prisoners, which I'm sure he wouldn't mind practising on any others that might come his way. I promise, he was almost kind to you."

"Lucky me. And that's the man who worries whether you've eaten enough? Sometimes I just can't fathom people." Sharpe gave a slight shrug, dismissing the problem. "Better to have that sort on your own side, anyway."

"Indeed so. Though I must admit that he has an uncanny ability to choose exactly the wrong moment to practise looking after me." Carlyle pushed away the memory of what had been about to happen before Miguel had so precipitously put an end to it, and tutting to himself, looked at the food. "I don't suppose you're hungry?"

Sharpe grinned. "Starving, what about you?"

"The same."

"And if we don't eat now, the food'll get cold."

"So sensible." Carlyle shook his head in amazement and without further ado they set to demolishing the meal.

By the time the chicken bones had been picked clean and the bread reduced to crumbs, it was nearly dark. Taking a taper Carlyle made his way around the room to light the branch of candles that stood against the wall and the lamp that sat on his desk. Then, with a glance at Sharpe, he blew the taper out and stepped onto the balcony.

The sound of a single guitar playing quietly trickled into the room. Sharpe watched the tall, silhouetted figure, for a long moment. Unsure of quite what he was meant to do, Sharpe stood up off the bed and brushed crumbs off himself, hesitating. Then, mind made up, he walked out into the evening air.

The moon was already riding high in the sky, the swathe of night that was visible an intense indigo touched here and there with brush–strokes of moon–shadowed cloud. The heat of the day had lessened and the air ran cooly about his face, the breeze lifting the shirt momentarily away from his skin as it dusted around the balcony and the two men standing there.

His face pale against the night, Carlyle turned, and smiled. "I love this part of the day." He tilted his head and breathed in.

"The night?" Sharpe came to stand at his side and he also looked up into the heavens, watching the slow procession of the clouds, seeing behind the banks of darkness the silver–lining he'd once stared at from the gutter and believed was real.

"This quiet; when the day is over and the night not quite begun."

"Are you a poet?"

"No. Though that doesn't mean I can't still enjoy this."

Sharpe stood still, letting the stillness and the strange content that filled the air seep into his bones. He listened to the guitar playing softly, to the muted sound of voices. Things would be much the same back at his own camp, the slow settling of men to sleep, the prowl of sentries, the peace that was so rarely found in a soldier's life. "You should have seen the nights in India, the sky would turn so blue it hurt to look on it. Sometimes you could hear tigers roaring up in the hills, the sound enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck."

"Did you fight there?"

Sharpe laughed. "I've fought bloody everywhere. I went expecting England full of folk with dark skin." He shook his head at his own naivety. "It was so different."

"Did you like it? Was it like here, like Spain?"

"It was nothing like here, and I hated it. The heat was incredible, and the flies and the bugs that ate you alive." He turned sideways, resting an arm on the ornate balcony, feeling the roughness of the stone under his fingers, feeling the warmth still held there from the hours in sun. "I spent a long time in a dungeon belonging to this bastard Sultan Tippoo. There were no tigers there — only the screams of men being tortured. No, I didn't like it much."

Carlyle made a soft sound in the back of his throat and reached out to cover the uneasy fingers with his own.

"But I'd made up my mind to be a soldier." Sharpe ran his tongue quickly over his lips. "So I didn't complain. And in the end I killed that fat Sultan."

They stood in silence until the remembering made Sharpe queasy. Then he looked at Carlyle and gave half–hearted smile. "Spain's better."

"Good."

Sharpe felt a realisation fall neatly into place. "You love it here, don't you?"

"Yes. I've found more peace here than I ever knew in England. From the food to the music, to the people..." Carlyle shrugged. "I fit in here."

Sharpe remembered Theresa, the wife he had loved and who had been murdered here. She had been everything that was good about Spain, with her Hidalgo blood and her absolute hatred of the French, her beauty and her loyalty. If she was still alive... Sharpe pushed the thought away. There was no going back. And had she lived, well then there might have been difficulties. Sharpe tried to imagine her, La Aguja, the woman who killed as easily as she breathed, settling down to a life of genteel poverty in cold, distant, demure England. He couldn't do it. Though of course he might have stayed here with her. Lived in Spain. For her he might have done it.

Maybe also for Carlyle.

He shied away from that thought, asking, "Will you never go home?"

"And give up this?" Carlyle breathed in a heady lungful of the exotic air. Though the guitarist had long since quietened and the darkness took away all but outline, there was no doubt that this place was foreign, that it was a world away from the provincial island he had been born on. He smiled, "I don't think Bond Street would be quite as exciting as I used to think."

"Maybe when all this is over we'll have had enough excitement."

"Is that your dream, Richard, that you can put a lifetime of fighting behind you and become, what, a farmer?"

"Something, I don't know what. Not that there's anything else but soldiering I'm any good at."

With a sudden look of intense longing, Carlyle went to speak, but he stopped himself and turned his face into the shadow. After a while he gave a little shake as if clearing his head and turned back, letting his hand fall to his side. "It's late, I'd better do the rounds, make sure everything is all right. I won't be long." He cleared his throat. "Will you wait for me?"

"Where would I go? I don't suppose your men would think kindly of me walking out of here."

"No, and neither would I, though for entirely different reasons." Carlyle's voice was deep and low, suddenly as fluid and seductive as the melancholy song that still carried through both their thoughts. "Wait for me?"

"Ay."

They met, hands linking again, the night taking their closeness and making of it one outline, one shadow. Then Carlyle turned on his heel and was gone, leaving more than a little disquiet in his wake.

* * * * *

"Sarge, are they watching us yet?"

"Harris, how in God's own name am I supposed to know that?"

"I just thought..."

"Harris."

"Yes, Sarge?"

"Keep an eye on where you're putting your feet and don't ask stupid questions."

"Yes, Sarge."

"Told you." Dan Hagman's words came from further back, his soft Cheshire voice almost cheerful.

"But I just thought he might know."

"How could he?"

"Will you two be quiet? It's bad enough not being able to see more than a few yards, without you two going on like a couple of fish–wives." Harper grunted in disgust. He was worried, certain that they'd have to stop soon, but more than needing to press on. The sooner he got the muskets to the Spanish, the sooner Sharpe would be home. He had thought a lot over what Hogan had said and was sure his captain wouldn't go native. Certain. Sharpe was too loyal. Too damn sensible for such a quixotic gesture to appeal. What the presence of Carlyle would do to the equation he wasn't so sure of. He hadn't liked the Englishman one bit.

If only Sharpe had felt the same.

Harper sighed again. A straight battle was so much simpler to deal with than this.

He trudged on, cursing the night, the terrain and the complication of having a man like Hogan to deal with. Then he tripped over a large rock he'd completely failed to see, only just managing to keep both feet under him. It was the last straw. Irritation at it all making his usually soft voice terse, he called out. "Christ in heaven? We'll have stop here. I suppose Mister Sharpe wouldn't be too happy if any of this flea–bitten lot broke a leg. And I meant the nags."

His nervous mood eased by the laughter that greeted this sally, Harper pulled on the reins and stood still. Just at that moment the moon emerged clear from behind a bank of cloud, her face bright in the expanse of cloud– and star–strewn sky.

"Well, will you look at that." Suddenly the landscape was quite clear in front of them. Coolly shadowed and quite leeched of colour, it even showed him he was still on course, something that had been a concern for the past few hours. He turned and grinned at his men. "There, anyone still want to stop?"

A chorus of voices all saying no was the answer.

"Good. Let's get on then."

From behind him, the words carrying on the clear night air came Harris' voice. "They'll see us better now the moon's out. Dan, what if they just decide to steal the guns and be done with it?"

"Harris," Harper was the one who answered. "You could have been strangled at birth as a mercy by your mother but you weren't."

"I know that, Sarge. But I wouldn't have known about that, this is..."

"Harris, you know your trouble? You think too much. Try concentrating on the matter in hand."

It was something they'd all have to do. If they were to get out of this alive. And with the captain.

Harper shook his head at the sky and gave a tug on the reins, cursing softly as the horse tossed its head in objection. "Come on you brute," he muttered, "you'll be all right when we get there." And he heaved, forcing the reluctant animal to move forward.

* * * * *

Lamp in one hand, jacket tossed over one arm, Carlyle was cursing as he ran up the wide stairs two at a time. Water dripped from his hair where he hadn't given himself time to dry it and his clothing was quite disarrayed, all because of his haste to return to his room and its occupant.

Having intended to merely give a cursory glance to all but the most pressing needs of his men, he'd ended up watching one of the most badly hurt of the wounded die. The man had taken a bayonet in the belly and by all rights shouldn't have lived longer than a few hours let alone dragged on until today. No more than seventeen, the child of murdered parents, he'd looked up to Carlyle in a way that was almost idolatry. And not even the thought of Sharpe waiting for him could bring his commander to leave until the hard dying was over.

Blood clinging to his hands, sweat plastering his clothes to his skin, shaking, Carlyle had taken himself out to the pump and stripped naked, dousing himself with the ice–cold water until a semblance of cleanliness stripped the worst of the helplessness from him. The death of his own people was always hard to take. This one as bad as any.

In the quiet fortress, in the darkness, illuminated by the light from a single lamp, he'd wanted to howl at the moon, wanted to find a Frenchman and do the same to him; to take a life in reparation for the one lost.

Instead, he'd stepped back into his breeches and walked inside, away from the night.

By the time he reached his own room he was breathing fast, and fresh sweat had started to mix with the damp that was still gathered, undried, in folds of his skin. With a terse nod to the man guarding his door, he stepped inside, fastening the lock behind him with an overwhelming feeling of coming home. Of safe–haven found.

The lamp on the table was still burning, but with surprise he saw that all the candles had guttered. He wondered how long he'd been away.

Too long, for half–curled on the bed lay the object of his obsession, fast asleep. Tossing his coat onto the chair, he went and stood by the bed, his lamp running the shadows before him, catching gold into the tangle of hair that lay unconsidered across the sleeping man's forehead.

Carlyle smiled, though it was spoiled by a yawn that followed immediately in its wake. "Sharpe?" He whispered, unsure if he wanted to wake the other man or not, torn between exhaustion and desire. "Richard..."

There was no response and, with a resigned sigh, he stripped off the remainder of his clothes, turning down the lamps before sliding carefully into the bed. After all, there would be other nights, other wakings, now that Sharpe was with him to stay. He shivered as the sleeper moved and almost awoke. Curling against the unresisiting warmth Carlyle ran a comforting hand along the nearest flank, whispering nothings as he did so, waiting until the breathing steadied once more.

So much for seduction. He gave a silent, wry laugh to the shadows.

And the muskets would be delivered tomorrow. Today.

The realisation almost made him wake his companion, but he didn't, not sure if there was energy in him to make anything of the occasion. The mind was all too willing, but he had a notion that his body was entertaining other ideas.

He yawned again.

And was asleep even before he'd finished considering what Sharpe would do if he woke him.

* * * * *

Sharpe awoke with the unmistakeable feel of an erect cock pressing into the curve of his arse. He smiled sleepily and turned.

"You came back, then."

"And you waited."

"Told you I would."

"Do you always keep your promises?"

"Always."

They lay for a moment, wrapped in warmth and content; a sea of tranquillity in the ocean of the world. Then Carlyle shuddered as a sure hand took gentle hold of him.

"I wanted this last night."

"So did I." Carlyle's agreement was heartfelt. He closed his eyes and gasped softly as the exploring fingers pressed knowingly against his balls, leaving them tight–drawn with need. He whispered, unsure of his voice: "And I think I still do."

"That's all right then." Sharpe ran his fingers up the length of shaft that pressed between them and smiled.

Carlyle was already past such niceties, emotion a turmoil in the dark reaches of his eyes. "Richard..." He arched forward, seeking friction, pressure, anything, all the turmoil of the past few days suddenly boiling in his blood. Blind, he opened his mouth to Sharpe's reaching lips, swallowing the kiss, gulping it down with all the greed of a man starved. He ran his hands through hair the colour of wheat lying rain–wet in an English field, clutched at the shape of bone, hard beneath skin. His mouth was stretched wide as if to take in whole the other face, to cannibalise it, to take the soul through the willing mouth. He was gasping as if mortally wounded, pushing every inch of body to meet the other flesh, wanting without reason, a fool out of time.

For Sharpe, it could have been himself. Remembering that, he laid himself open to every advance, seeking only to give pleasure, to allay the terrible fear that underpinned this act of love. He kissed, and without thought echoed the thrusts that slammed him into the bed. When the resistance was not enough he curved his hands around the firm arse and pulled, adding his strength to the unmeasured passion. A part of him watched from a distance, adding each strangled groan to the tally of remembrance, noting every drop of sweat, every tight–drawn muscle, every clutch of white–boned fingers to the disordered sheets. Part of him watched, but mostly he revelled in the slide of sweat dampened bodies, in the immeasurable need that drove the man in his arms to such intemperate lengths.

He wanted a mirror, a mirror high above them so he could watch more clearly. Watch the play of muscles in the strong back, the shadows that would curve into the tight buttocks. One day. One day he would watch this, but then instead of the clumsy push of cock against cock, and cock against belly, Carlyle would be fucking him.

The thought made him convulse with desire, a quick contraction of all his muscles that made Carlyle, in desperate thrall, throw his head back in ecstasy and cry out in short gasping sighs as he came, the heat spilling between their bodies like breath coalescing on a winter's day.

For a man who, to the world, had taken no pleasure, Sharpe lay under the weight of his lover and smiled with remarkable contentment. Lightly stroking his fingers through strands of soft hair that curled onto his own shoulder, he closed his eyes and breathed in the moment. All he could smell was Carlyle. All he could taste, touch, see; was.

All he could desire.

In the moment of peace, he knew beyond doubt that this feeling, whatever it was, had never been in him before. Never. Not with Harper. Not even with Theresa.

The realisation shook him to the foundations of all he believed.

But, stranger still, he found he wasn't frightened. Not of himself, not of the future. To have known this once was almost enough. To have known it at all was a gift from the gods; gods who had in all his life rarely shown themselves benign to Richard Sharpe.

He put his arms around the wide shoulders and rested his head for few seconds on the sweat–damp hair, holding tight, taking the sum of the moment and storing it away.

Then Carlyle lifted his head. He was quite sane again; his eyes unclouded, the piercing intelligence no longer hidden by anger or need.

"Good morning."

In answer the deep, honey–rich voice was not quite as smooth as usual. "Good morning." Carlyle swallowed hard, then at once realised where he was lying and slid sideways until the bulk of his weight rested on the bed and not on Sharpe. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not being able to wait for you."

"Am I complaining?"

"Are you?"

"No."

Carlyle considered, then levering himself onto one elbow he frowned at the relaxed sprawl next to him. "Why not?" He reached with his free hand and felt with strange familiarity the curve and warmth and texture of a groin like and yet unlike his own. There was some arousal, but no desperate need.

"Because it was enough. For now, you understand." Sharpe grinned.

"For now?"

"Mmm. When you get your breath back we'll be more even. Take our time about it."

"But..."

"Besides," Sharpe interrupted. "I'm quite happy, just like this." And quite ridiculously, he was.

They settled and lay still together, legs partially woven around each other, fingers stroking idly where they fell just for the indolent luxury of touch. Lying enclosed in a silence that permitted no knowledge of the future, no remembrance of the past.

His blood still fired with the edge of desire, Sharpe wanted this to go on forever. The need in him was so sweet, so completely hinged on this man that it was almost as if his own satisfaction was unimportant, a secondary element to their union. It was madness, of course, and would soon pass. But for the moment he stroked his hand along hot skin and wanted this to last forever.

Then the silence was shattered by a fist banging on the door.

Carlyle sat up in the bed and shouted. The sound stopped.

Sharpe watched the ruffled composure affectionately, trying not to smile.

"Damn them, can't they do anything without me?"

"You wouldn't want them to."

Carlyle turned at the reasonable tone, bridling. Then he relaxed and sighed agreement. "No. Though at this moment I'd rather stay here."

"Go and be a good officer. I'll wait." Harper wouldn't be here for hours, maybe not until the afternoon. He found himself hoping for the evening because that would mean another night here, but knew that was only wishful thinking. Harper would be here as soon as he could. And then this would be all over.

The knowledge was remarkably depressing.

Carlyle paused, looking down, meeting eyes changeable as the sea in autumn. "Richard..."

"Mmm?"

But in the end he never finished whatever he'd been about to say. Instead he shrugged, a coward for the first time in his life. "Right then, I'll be back as quick as I can." With a gentle kiss to Sharpe's mouth he stepped out of bed, putting on the first clothes that came to hand. Then, decent in breeches, boots and shirt, he went to leave.

Sharpe's voice stopped him with a hand poised on the door–handle. "Carlyle?"

"Mmm?"

"I just wondered if you answered to the name." He shrugged. "It's daft, but I don't know what to call you."

"My father called me James, my mother, Jamie. I've been Philip, once even William, though I never liked that much or thought it suited me." Carlyle pondered the matter, then gave up. "Call me what you want."

"There's temptation..."

"Within the bounds of reason and decency, naturally?"

"James... Jamie." Sharpe sat up and frowned. "I think of you as Carlyle."

"Well, you've proved I answer to it."

"Ay. That I have. But I'll think about the others. And you were right about William."

"Mmm, I argued myself blue in the face with the man who chose it. Didn't get myself anywhere."

"Whoever it was, he sounds like Hogan, some people have got no idea..."

Sharpe was lying down again, his eyes away from the other man so he missed the passage of emotions across the strong features. Carlyle hurriedly turned to the door and opened it. "I'll be back soon as I can." And was gone.

Sharpe stretched, easing kinks out of his muscles before relaxing back with a sigh, wondering idly what it would be like to wake in this bed every day.

And sat up in near horror. How could he be even contemplating staying here? He had a life — the army. An army Carlyle was trying quite successfully to disrupt. Not that he'd been asked to stay.

That was true.

But what if he was asked? What then?

Closing the thought away he climbed out of the sheets, standing slightly unsteadily beside the bed, fingers clutching at the foot–board. He rubbed the fingers of his free hand over his face in exasperation.

It was no good.

He found the clothes and dressed, paying them scarcely any heed, and walked out onto the balcony.

The heat hit him like a wall, the humidity springing sweat onto his skin. There was thunder in the air, clouds darkening overhead. Maybe this time it would actually rain.

There was a deal of activity in the courtyard. Horsemen were arriving and it was impossible to see clearly what was happening. Sharpe searched with his eyes, but amongst all the men there was no sign of Carlyle.

But there was Harper. A hand gripping hard at the stone balustrade, Sharpe fought with the confusion of thoughts and emotions that battled within the confines of his mind.

Harper, leading a line of horses, along with Harris and Hagman and Cooper; all come to take him home. Behind him he heard the door slam and footsteps tread determinedly across the room. He took a deep breath and turned, just as Carlyle stepped through onto the balcony, his face shuttered, grim.

"Your ransom is here."

"I can see."

"They must have travelled through the night, there was moon enough if they were pressed."

"Harper can be very determined."

"So can I. What do you want? Will you stay with me, stay here, or, if you'd prefer, we could go back to England?"

The question took Sharpe's breath away. He looked around in something akin to pain, seeing the stones and the vine that draped from the roof to lend beauty to the wilderness, seeing the shored up ruin and the wild romance that had brought an Englishman here.

As if from another world he could hear Harper arguing with Carlyle's men over the cases of muskets, he was pushing one of the bandits away from a pack–horse. The sky had darkened and, apart from the voices, there was silence; no birds sang, the air holding utterly still.

"Richard?"

Sharpe returned with a shudder and remembered where he was. He stared wide–eyed at the only person he had ever truly wanted and shook his head.

Carlyle swallowed, speaking slowly, almost as if against his will. "I need you, stay."

Sharpe bent his head, unable to make himself meet the pain that had narrowed his companion's eyes. He took a deep breath, consternation making him brief: "No, I can't."

"You must?" Carlyle took a half–step forward, his austere face showing something akin to pain. "I love you..."

Sharpe dug his fingers into stone. "Carlyle...Jamie." He looked up. "Can't you see, what have I got if I leave the army? Nothing."

"Nothing? You'll have me, I've money enough for whatever you need, more than enough. Richard..."

"It's not money?" Sharpe was pleading for understanding. "Money means nothing, I need..." He struggled to find the words that would translate the need he knew drove himself. "I need to be my own man."

"But I don't want to own you. I want you to be my equal, in everything."

"Then let me go."

They stood in silence.

"You don't mean it." Carlyle tilted his head, his eyes narrowed with disbelief.

"I'm sorry." Wretched, Sharpe released his hold on the security of the balcony and straightening his shoulders looked directly at Carlyle. He looked wary, confused. Completely without his usual shield of arrogance. Sharpe went to him. "You must believe me, I'd stay if I could."

"Then stay, we'll make it possible."

"I can't?" Sharpe was almost pleading to be understood.

There was chaotic emotion clouding over the suddenly bone–white skin. "You lied." It was a statement; implacable.

Sharpe shook his head. "I never promised anything."

Fierce eyes raised, dark with betrayal and anger. "You lied."

"Jamie..."

Carlyle hit him, hard, the fisted blow sending Sharpe reeling into the wall. "Don't call me that." He was breathing as if he'd climbed too close to the sun, the air thinning around him. "Don't you dare call me anything."

Dazed, Sharpe pushed away from the stone and wearily gave a small movement of despair. "I'm sorry."

"Liar. Bastard."

Each cold word made Richard Sharpe flinch. There was a hollowness in his gut that made staying upright hard. Guilt, layered with remorse, weighed him down, made him want to crawl and beg to be allowed to stay. But there was no other answer. He couldn't stay. How could he?

"I'd better go."

The only answer was a terse nod and Carlyle was past him, heading at speed for the door. Sharpe followed him out of the room, along the hallway, down the wide, rotting stair–well, though never once was his presence even noted by anyone but the guards.

Sharpe slowed as they emerged into the open air, his eyes immediately seeking Harper. There was a solidity to underpin the chaos. There.

Then Harper was at his side. "Morning, sir. A fine day it is."

"Yes, Pat." He spoke to Harper, wanted to leave with Harper, had to. But despite his best intentions, Sharpe's eyes dragged towards the tall, angry man who talked on one side with his officers.

"I waited to make sure you were safe before unpacking the muskets."

"Well done, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir." Harper eyed his officer with disquiet, not at all keen on his shadowed expression or the fact that he was clearly none too ready to leave. "Do they have the rest of your clothes?"

Sharpe looked down as if realising for the first time he was barefoot, or that the thin silk of the evening clothes was hardly suitable for travelling across rough terrain. "I don't know." He shook himself. "It doesn't matter. Are you ready?"

"Ask him." Harper nodded to Carlyle.

"You do it." And Sharpe turned away, heading towards the horses and the small group of green–jacketed Riflemen.

Harper didn't need to, for Carlyle was already walking towards him. He stared the Irishman straight in the eye, and Harper felt a shadow pass over the sun. He fought the instinct to cross himself.

Carlyle, cold as winter, spoke, "We'll need to count the muskets, make sure we're not being short–changed."

"Yes, sir." Harper called across, "Cooper, Harris, get the cases unloaded and open them up." He turned back. "There you are."

"Good." And the Englishman was away, giving orders himself to as surly a group of ruffians as Harper had set eyes on this side of Dublin bay.

It was halfway through the counting that Harper knew that something was amiss. He'd paid little attention to what the Spanish were doing, his mind too concerned with the shell of quiet and misery that surrounded his captain, holding him distant from everything that was going on.

That was all changed by a single shout. One of the Spanish men was showing a musket to Carlyle, talking in a long, clearly outraged speech that had all his fellows in a stir. Harper walked slowly over to one of the open cases and picked up a gun. And cursed under his breath.

He was backing towards the horses when Carlyle's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Did you think we wouldn't notice, was that it?"

"No." Harper shook his head, knowing he wouldn't be believed. "I didn't know."

"Fuck it." Carlyle threw the useless musket onto the ground. "I suppose this is down to Hogan. One hundred new muskets, not one of which will work. The bastard."

"Maybe the firing pins are packed separately."

"I really don't think that likely." The words were bitten off, hard and unforgiving as forged steel. "Perhaps he wants me to kill your captain." Carlyle was rigidly controlled, his anger forcing colour into the pallor of his skin. "Perhaps that's it."

Quite suddenly, Harper was frightened. "Let me search for them."

Dark eyes met his and the smile that stretched across Carlyle's face gave anything but reassurance. "Very well. Search."

Harper did. With the other Riflemen he scrabbled through every scrap of straw, every corner of every case. There were no firing pins. Harper wondered what it would feel like, to be hung for killing Hogan. If he ever got back to make the attempt, that was.

Carlyle was no longer even pretending to smile, and his men were slowly surrounding the small party of British soldiers.

"It must be a mistake, I'll get the pins, I..."

"Be quiet."

The soft, drawling voice silenced Harper more effectively than a parade–ground bellow. Faced with a man turned to fire and ice he stood and knew that he would never have a chance to kill Hogan. There was no way any of them were stepping out of this fortress alive. A gun appeared at his side, pointed unwaveringly at his head.

"Go over and stand with your fellows."

Feet dragging, Harper went.

"Captain Sharpe, perhaps you would do me the honour of stepping forward."

Ignoring Harper's hand as it reached out to try and stop him, Sharpe faced the inevitable and walked evenly forward. The dust and broken stones of the gound were warm under his feet, and far in the distance a bird was singing sweetly. He walked as if he was alone, head high, easy. Then he halted before Carlyle, a slim, barefoot figure, quite alone.

"I should kill you." Carlyle took a deep breath. "But I find I cannot. So, you see, you make me break my word as well."

Sharpe blinked in confusion. He'd expected to die.

"But I also cannot just let you go. Hogan thinks me weak enough — fool enough — as it is. So, what shall I do with you?"

"He doesn't think you..."

Sharpe was silenced by a stinging slap across his face.

"Don't try and tell me what he thinks?" Carlyle moved very close, closer. "I don't believe you, remember? I know that you lie."

Sharpe nodded, knowing that to argue would be useless. He could smell the familiar sweat that darkened Carlyle's clothing, see the gold that faceted the deep brown eyes, the madness that burned like poison deep in their heart. Suddenly, he knew that whatever was going to happen, death might considered preferable after all.

He shuddered then, when Carlyle kissed him. The light brush of lips against his own a knife wound that cut to the bone; a hook in the gut that twisted. He tried to pull away but a hand tied itself into his hair and stopped that.

He held very still, sweating.

Carlyle smiled slowly.

And turned away, speaking quickly.

Sharpe found himself taken between strong hands and man–handled to the side of the courtyard, suddenly disoriented he stumbled, but stayed upright. Harper was calling out to him, but there was no sense to the words, no sense to anything, because all of a sudden he knew what Carlyle was going to do. The one thing they both feared most.

He fought. All the way to being bound to the whipping–post, all the while they forced his hands high above his head, he fought. Though he ended up where they wanted him, as he had known in the ashes of his soul that he would.

He was shivering, knowing what was to come even before Carlyle walked slowly into the circle of his vision, the long whip held gracefully between his hands. He said nothing, though to his captive the blankness behind his eyes was enough.

Sharpe licked his dry lips and tried to say something, but his throat was tight–closed on any words. Eyes blind, he leant his head against the wood, trying hard to control his breathing, failing. Hands were at his back and he almost cried out in shock when his shirt was cut unceremoniously from his body, the knife cold, sharp against his skin.

Tossing the rags of silk to the ground, Carlyle stepped very close. He ran the back of one finger down Sharpe's face, taking the ill–concealed dread to himself. Carlyle nodded in approval when the narrowed eyes met his own, seeing the change in their colour, as if all the green had been stolen away and replaced with a grey the exact shade of fear. He licked his own lips in an echo, holding the moment between them; the dread, the knowing. He almost smiled, though the expression was still–born. His lip quirked instead. "At least this way you won't forget me."

Sharpe shook his head, his voice quite painfully unsteady. "I wouldn't have."

"Oh, but you might. You might be fickle as well as a liar and a bastard."

Sharpe closed his eyes, denying the accusations with silence.

"Remember."

The word rang around the hollow silence in Sharpe's head, and he knew that Carlyle had moved away, that it was going to begin and there was not one thing he could do to stop it. Hating the fear that shivered through him, clutching at the cords that bound him, he waited.

And waited.

Then there was no more waiting to be done.

* * * * *

Sometime over the past little–while it must have begun to rain. Sharpe stared at the rain–drops that kicked up dust from the ground in front of his face and was thankful, for if it was raining then it would become cooler. Maybe cool enough to quench the fire that seemed to have replaced his body.

He frowned at the thought. He couldn't remember. Anything, not really. He wasn't even sure why he was lying face down on the ground.

His hand was lying in front of his face and he stretched out a finger to rub it against a droplet of water. The skin around his wrist was raw, bleeding; he frowned again, though without much curiosity.

His senses began to work singly, without very much urgency. After sight came smell and he nearly vomited at the familiar, slaughter–house stink of blood. Unfortunately feeling followed hard on the heels of the rest.

He tried to move, to turn over, and the flood of too familiar pain shocked his memory into life. He lay on his side and panted, letting the rain cool his face and stillness take some of the agony away from his back.

Carlyle.

He slowly lifted his head and searched around, the ring of spectators as motionless as a tableau. Carlyle was standing quite still, the whip curled bloodily in his hands. He was staring at the ground.

Setting his teeth and sure that he could do it, Sharpe dragged himself until he was partially propped against the darkened wood that had supported him while he screamed. He placed a hand against its roughness and waited.

Blinking against the few rain–drops that battered at his eyes, he watched as Carlyle looked up, and throwing the whip to one side, walked slowly towards where he sprawled. Carlyle crouched down. Sharpe tried not to flinch when a large hand took hold of his face, forcing their eyes to meet. There were specks of blood on Carlyle's skin and on the white of his shirt where they must have spattered off the whip. The scarlet was running in the rain, streaking the pale skin, darkening the shirt.

"Are you alive?"

Sharpe found a voice, a mere thread but it served. "Ay."

"Then you won't forget." The fingers dug to the bone.

Sharpe could have laughed, given strength. Or cried.

Carlyle nodded. "I'll remember as well. Every time I'm happy. Good bye."

And he was on his feet, turning, calling out as he walked away, his footsteps taking him inside without a single glance over his shoulder.

Rain was stinging Sharpe's eyes when a gentle hand commanded his attention. "Richard? Sir?"

"Pat." Sense. Stone. Reality. Sharpe clutched at Harper's fingers and closed them in his own.

"They're letting us all go, but you'll have to ride, sir."

Ride. Sharpe gave a weak protest that ended with him twisted to the ground, heaving up bile.

"Jesus." Harper eyed the ring of Spaniards who watched them without any sign of mercy and cursed. "Harris, take his other arm."

And between them they hoisted their Captain to his feet, trying to make the short journey to the horses easy. It was clear he would never be able to ride, and in the end Harper mounted the quietest of the animals, holding it still while between them Harris and Cooper awkwardly heaved the inert body in front of him. Though by then Sharpe was no longer anywhere near conscious.

Everything was soaked. Though Harper stripped off his jacket and gently covered Sharpe with it, he was sure the gesture was almost useless, as the man there couldn't get any wetter. But he could get cold. The sergeant wondered about asking for a blanket, but didn't bother, sure the request would only be laughed at.

With a click of his tongue, Harper encouraged the horse through the press of Carlyle's men, ignoring the muttered comments, the occasional curse. With the others following close behind he led the way out of the huge old gates, into the rain soaked countryside, flanked on either side by a totally unwelcome escort of armed horsemen.

The descent was the stuff of nightmares. The track was slippery with rain and the horses hooves made hard work of it. A half–dozen times he was convinced the brute was going down, but he held tight to the reins and held them up as if by force of will alone. The Spaniards on their mountain–ponies had little trouble and their taunts ran as a counterpoint to the slip and slide down the path. Harper hated every yard, would remember it as long as he lived.

Tossed across Harper's knees like a sack of grain, Sharpe faded in and out of consciousness. Harper soothed him when he tried to move, worried about him when he lay as one already dead.

By the time they reached level ground Harper was worn with anxiety. There he made a decision. Instead of heading back to camp, he made for the haunted village, for Maura. Grim and determined, his face reflecting the horror of what he had watched, he ignored the rain that plastered the ragged shirt to his chest; ignored everything but the occasional moments when Sharpe was lucid, worrying truly when he began to shiver.

The journey seemed far longer than it ever had before.

Somewhere in the foothills, the Spaniards peeled off with whoops and shouts, heading back towards home. The Riflemen shouted back, releasing some of their frustration and anger at the diminishing shapes, cursing the retreating figures as they never had been able to their faces. Waiting only until he was sure they were out of musket shot, Harper turned his face back to the west and rode steadily on.

The rain eased off sometime in the mid afternoon and a weak sun cautiously began to shine a few paltry rays on the glistening earth. They came out of the last foothills of the mountains and began the easier journey across the plain. They said almost nothing at all, their eyes fixed ahead, hardly thinking, their minds numb. In time it even stopped raining.

The village crept up on them eventually and Harper rode into its street in the late afternoon, awkwardly crossing himself, careful of reins and his officer, as he passed the mass grave. Somehow, now, the gesture was as close to prayer as he could let himself come.

They finally halted before the ruins of the church. For a long time, Harper sat in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the cross that sat mockingly atop the crumbling facade. Then he shook his head before carefully dismounting. He stood on the muddy ground and touched his hand to the matted strands of Sharpe's hair. He was still alive, still breathing. Harper took an unsteady breath, standing stiffly, his whole body groaning in protest. After a while, the others grouped round him.

Harper looked at them all, then nodded. "We'll take him in the church. It should be dry enough in there."

"Shouldn't we take him back to camp, Sarge?" Harris voiced the concern they all felt.

"Not like this. You think he'd want to ride into camp draped like a bloody sack over this old nag?" Harper's voice was tight with suppressed emotion. "Well, I don't think he would." He touched the remains of drying blood that circled one wrist and frowned. This was the right thing to do, he knew it. But there was always doubt. He sighed. "Let's get him inside. Get him cleaned up."

Hagman looked at the other two and nodded and found agreement on all their faces. He turned back to his sergeant. "Ay, well, you know him best. Shall we make a fire up?"

"Yes, you and Cooper, you see to it. Harris, you help me with the captain."

With infinite care the two men eased Sharpe from the across the horse's back. When they held him upright the weight of pain brought him close to awareness. He blinked in confusion, his dry lips cracking on a single name: "James?"

"No, sir, it's Patrick. Come on now, we'll have you nice and warm in a trice. Nice and easy now, that's it." He took one arm, Harris the other and somehow they got him inside, finding the driest part of the floor close to the desecrated altar and laying him down carefully on his belly, using their jackets to take the chill off the dusty floor. "Harris, see if you can find something we can use as a blanket. He'll need to be kept warm."

When Harris was gone, Harper sat down by his officer's side and touched him lightly on the arm.

Dull eyes slowly focused, remembered. "Pat..."

"Ay, it's me all right." Harper began to say something else, then gave in, muttering, "You're a mess, sir, if I might be saying so."

Sharpe almost smiled, his mouth twisting slightly. "Sorry."

"Don't you be apologising. It's that bastard Hogan whose fault it all is."

"He probably had his reasons."

"I did."

Harper was on his feet, a knife, his only remaining weapon, in his hand before the voice had finished echoing around the empty building.

Hogan walked from the shadows, holding his hands out before him. "I'm not armed."

"You don't need to be. Look what you did to him without even trying. Or was it that you were trying, was that it? Did you want him killed and that he's alive is an accident? Jesus, and to think you're an Irishman."

"Don't be a fool." Hogan halted by Sharpe's side and crouched down, finally meeting the narrowed eyes that were turned towards him. He gave a shrug that was more than half apology. "I didn't intend this. In fact I'm sorry."

Sharpe finally managed to sit up, though his breathing was disordered by the time he achieved his objective. He sat for a long moment with his shoulder propped against the pillar, then made a sound that was the desiccated husk of a laugh. "Why did you leave out the firing pins then, by bloody accident?"

"Did you think I would give a hundred muskets to someone as close to breaking as Carlyle is?" Hogan was earnest, almost beseeching, his words honeyed by truth. "Would you like to see them used to kill more British soldiers?"

"Then why did you say you would?" Sharpe tried to control the shivers that ran through his limbs, hating the weakness. He was held together by pure curiosity, and a strange, wayward desire to make sure that Harper didn't accidentally knife Hogan in the back.

"Well, I was sure you'd have him wrapped around your little finger after a day or so. I was wrong — a mistake I regret." The soft Irish voice almost sounded pitiful. "But you see I want him back; he's one of mine."

"You bastard? One of yours?" Sharpe began to laugh weakly, then curled in on himself as the pain in his back suddenly burned too bright.

"Come on." Hogan was at his side, fingers chill on the heated skin of Sharpe's arm. "Lie down, I've stuff in my pack to clean you up."

"So you expected this?" Harper crossed his arms; the knife was tucked away but its absence did nothing to make him look less dangerous. Every muscle promised just tolerance, not forgiveness.

"No." Hogan looked up, his expression open. "But I do like to be prepared. Come on Richard, lie down."

At that moment, with a clatter of booted feet, Harris and the other two appeared at the door, their surprise at the sight meeting their eyes closer to shock. "Major Hogan?"

"Yes, lads, it's me. You can save the greetings for later." Hogan glanced at Harper's set face. "Much later."

Harper turned as the men walked up the aisle. "Did you find anything dry enough to burn?"

"Yes, Sarge. Cooper even found this..." It was a ragged blanket. "God knows how clean it is, but we though it'd be better than nothing."

Harper took hold of it and nodded. "Well done. Now get the fire going." His eyes slid to where Sharpe lay, half curled upon himself. "We haven't got all day."

"There, you'll be warm in a trice." Hogan was reaching for the jacket that was still swathing the ruin of Sharpe's back, but a hand stopped him. He met slitted eyes that glinted green eyes, and lifted a brow. "I'm only going to clean you up, Richard, nothing else."

Sharpe was shaking his head. "No, Harper'll do it."

"But..."

"No?"

After a long breath, Hogan backed off, letting Sharpe's hand fall away. He went and sat by the altar steps, near, but not too near. Sharpe appeared to slide without preamble into restless sleep.

In surprisingly short time, and with very few words wasted, a fire was built and lit, sending smoke to cloud at the ceiling. After a while its warmth began to break though the dank air, spreading finally to touch at the shivering figure of their officer.

Unable to put off the moment any longer, Harper crouched at his side. "Captain, let me clean you up."

As he watched, Sharpe turned his head slowly. Harper smiled in encouragement.

"Where's Hogan?"

"Here." The voice came from the other side of the fire.

"Well, bugger off."

Harper turned. "You heard. Sir."

Hogan looked at the two men, seeing the protective hand that curled around Sharpe's knee. Seeing more than either of them knew. He stood up and straightened his waistcoat. "I'll just take a little stroll around. See what's happening."

"You do that."

Harper watched until the stocky frame was out of the door. Then he faced weary eyes that wouldn't quite meet his own. "I'll be quick as I can."

He began to stand but a cold hand stopped him. "Thanks, Pat."

"Don't be daft, there's nothing to thank me for." Sharpe shook his head, and Harper squeezed his hand in encouragement. Then he tried a smile. "Just don't run away."

"Don't think I could." Sharpe met his eyes momentarily. "Not just now."

"Maybe not at that. How many strokes did he give you?"

"I wasn't counting." Sharpe shuddered.

"Neither was I."

Sharpe looked up through the straggling ends of his hair and suddenly understood what it must have been like to watch. He whispered, remembering, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. There's no shame in it." Harper knelt again, trying for the right words. "We've both seen it before, and will again."

"That's different."

"Maybe." The big shoulders gave a slight shrug.

"I deserved this."

"Jesus? What rubbish..." Harper looked appalled.

"No. I should have stayed. Or made him come with me." Sharpe bent his head and let his hair hide his eyes. "I didn't even think of that."

"Hogan should have told you the truth. How did he expect you to work in the dark?"

"That's how he thinks; tell as little as you can get away with. I shouldn't have expected anything else."

Harper ground his teeth and cursed. "Damn him."

"No." Sharpe winced as he pushed away from the stone. "No, it was me he damned." He clutched at Harper's shirt–sleeve, and his sergeant saw fever beginning to burn deep in the over–bright eyes. Fever, along with loss. When he continued, it was with certainty: "I'll never be able to go back." He may as well have spoken of the end of the world.

"Where?" The sergeant frowned in confusion.

"To him."

"Ah." With a deep breath, Harper knew the truth. He held still, ashamed of the pointless envy that sliced through him.

"If I went back he'd kill me. Or I'd kill him." Sharpe considered, then blinked as the obvious solution showed itself to his tired thoughts. "Perhaps, after all, I should go."

"No?" Harper exclaimed at the suggestion. "If you try I'll tie you up and not let you out of my sight until that tom–fool idea is rotted from your brain? Richard, this is the fever talking, wait until you feel better, then reason it out."

"Reason? I think this is the sleep of reason." He gave a half laugh, half sob, that cut through all the envy. "Oh, Patrick? Hold me?"

And Harper, his own shame buried, gathered the damaged body into gentle arms and held on, rocking very slightly as Sharpe clumsily wept.

* * * * *

The fever took hold long before they arrived back at the British lines. Harper rode with his captain in front of him, holding the swaying body upright, listening to the muttered ravings, hearing many things he never wanted to hear again. Their arrival caused a mild stir, though Harper managed to get Sharpe into his tent before too many eyes had seen. Rumour would take care of the rest, but at least he had been clean, dressed and more or less upright.

With Ramona to watch while he slept, Harper sat beside the sweating, over–heated body, washing the wasting limbs with cool water, salving the ruined back. He waited patiently, sure that his officer would mend, sure that all his efforts would not be in vain. Through the two days it took for the fever to break he warded off all visitors, held his hand over the dry and blistered mouth when the dreams induced violent struggles with an unseen adversary, stifled the misery, the long, rambling, incoherent conversations with an absent man; conversations that in his right mind Sharpe would never have believed.

Or maybe he would. Now.

Harper was no longer sure he knew Sharpe at all. The time in the mountains had changed him, perhaps forever.

On the morning of the third day, when Harper was finally considering harsher measures to break the fever, Sharpe finally woke, quite lucid. Thin, as pale as the bleached cotton of his sheets, he looked Harper in the eye, asked for water and then went to sleep. True sleep.

It was enough. Ramona laughed and danced around when she heard, going off to tell the pack of Riflemen who haunted the area close to Sharpe's tent. Harper heard the cheers from where he sat, though he didn't join in them himself.

A few hours later Sharpe woke. Hungry, he managed a bowl of soup, though he remained quiet, saying almost nothing, the deep sorrow that seemed to have soaked him to the bone, painful for Harper to see. So painful that when Hogan came to him and asked, Harper agreed. He gave Ramona instructions and kissed her. Then, without a word to the man who lay staring into the empty air, his body healing but his soul in purgatory, Harper led Hogan and a half–company from the South Essex back into the mountains.

Sharpe was so distracted that it was almost a day before he realised that Harper was gone. He plucked fretfully at the sheets, tossed and turned as much as he was able, then for the first time since returning, set unsteady foot outside the tent.

The warmth of feeling the closest of his own men showed him was almost too much. He stood still, their pleasure, their genuine delight in seeing him up and about almost enough to unman him. He tried to smile, succeeded for most of the time, laughed at a sally from one, admired the babe of another, whilst all the time the weight of pain in his body served as a constant reminder of another place, other joy.

He bore up well under their enthusiasm. He answered their questions as best he could, trying not to flinch away from their boisterousness, their goodwill. After a while, when he was sure he couldn't stand any longer, Harris took his arm and guided him back to his tent, easing him back onto the bed.

Sharpe looked up at the intelligent eyes, remembered they had been there as well; that they had seen it all. Well, all that counted. He swallowed hard, bitterly, but made himself ask, "Harris?"

"Yes, sir?" Poised with a mug of water in his hand, the rifleman turned.

"Where's Harper?"

Harris cleared his throat, and tried to avoid the issue. "Here, drink this, sir."

"Tell me." Sharpe took the mug, holding it tightly between his hands.

"He went with Major Hogan, sir."

"Where?"

"Back there, sir. To the mountains."

Staring at the floor, Sharpe absorbed the information in silence. Then he lifted his head, his mouth set grimly. "Thank you."

Harris shuffled from one foot to the other and cursed himself. Not that he'd been told that Sharpe shouldn't know. But maybe it would have been better.

"That'll be all, Harris."

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, but when Sharpe glared at him he left, going to sit with the others, a very troubled young man.

The next day, with the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds, Sharpe was sat on a stool outside his tent, staring at nothing in particular. A thin cotton shirt covered his back. He looked up as Harper walked up to him. The Irishman was filthy, powder burns on his face, mud and blood darkening his uniform.

Sharpe frowned, a shadow moving across his face. The silence stretched between them, though in the end it was Sharpe who broke it asunder. He closed his eyes briefly and accepted the pain, though he still had the grace to phrase the statement as a question. "Did you kill him?"

"No." Harper shook his head, weary beyond belief. "Believe me or not, but I went to bring him back."

The information slowly sank into Sharpe's confusion. He tried not to ask, but such fortitude was beyond him. "Did you?"

"No." Harper flinched at the need that shone so starkly through the inadequate disguise. He took a deep breath and drew himself up until he was standing straight, wiping the fatigue from his mind. "I'm sorry, but Carlyle is dead. One of his own men shot him. We believe they thought he'd betrayed them."

Sharpe closed his eyes and a near invisible tremor ran through him. The sun was very bright on his lids and he looked down, hiding his eyes from the light.

"Jesus, I tried..."

Sharpe interrupted him. "Did you bury him?"

"No." Harper knew what the question was really asking. "But I saw him fall. We'd won by then and someone torched the building. I'm sorry. I rode straight back here. I thought you'd want to know."

"Yes. Thank you." Sharpe was examining his hands, picking at the old callouses on his palms with ragged nails.

"It wouldn't have worked."

"No?" Sharpe grimaced. "I had thought that too."

"You were right." Harper permitted no doubt to stray into his voice.

"Maybe." Sharpe sighed, straightening, feeling the pain in his back as a echo. "Maybe."

"There's no maybes involved. Forget it all. You're needed here. The men need you. And so do I."

Sharpe listened, and knew there was unambiguous truth in the words. But despite knowing that, knowing that there was a place for him here, that what might have been was only a ghost, a phantom he had danced after as gleefully as an untried girl, he still wanted to hear the piper and follow him away into the hills.

Everything had changed. Carlyle had changed it all. Hollow, Sharpe wondered what the chance encounter had made of him. What there was left of the man who had ridden so blithely up to the mountains.

The reality was far more simple, far less edged with the romance of memory. He had a future, though one that was now without choice. To be sure, it was a future he had once seen as the only one, though that was then and the world had shifted on its axis long since; spun upon itself by a pair of arrogant dark eyes and a strength that equalled his own.

But that was not the path for his thoughts to take. After all, he was a soldier. Perhaps there were still no choices to be made at all. If there ever had been.

Slowly, without pretence at grace, he stood up, leaning his hand on Harper's shoulder, seeing for the first time how tired the sergeant was, seeing the lines bitten deep into the skin of his face. How much did you have to love someone before it was true love? He shook his head. "Patrick." The name was an affirmation.

"That's me, sir."

"I know." Sharpe gave the solid muscle under his hand a shake. "I do know that. Whatever." He paused, then let his hand fall to his side. "You'd better get cleaned up. Ramona will be beside herself."

"She'll be all right, sir. Be glad to see me back, so she will."

Sharpe searched his face, deeply intent. "So am I, Pat. So am I."

"Good, for I've something for you." Harper tossed a bundle onto the floor, then bent down to open it up. The first thing he passed to his captain was his own sword.

"Patrick?" "Ay, well, sir. I thought you might feel a bit lost without it." He watched with a smile on his face as Sharpe slid the blade from its scabbard. "I brought back what I could find."

Sharpe looked down and there in the blanket lay his French cavalry overalls, his boots and a square wooden case he didn't recognise. Sliding the blade back into its housing he used it to point. "What's that? I don't think it's mine."

"It's not." Harper hesitated then crouched down again, picking up the wooden case in his hands and holding it for a long moment, seeing the beautiful patina of the wood caused by long, gentle handling; years of polish and care. "But I thought you should see it."

"Go on then, hand it over." Sharpe was curious, almost excited. The case looked as if it should house a small painting, he seen its like in the baggage of other officers.

Harper held it out, almost seeming to curse as the case changed hands. "I'm sorry."

"Why, is it..."

But Sharpe got no further, trapped into stone by the sight held so unwillingly before his eyes. True, the case held a likeness of the man he remembered, but by its side was that of a woman; a woman who held two children close to her silk clad breast. He stared at the images for a long time, memorising the fine shape of her chin, the sparkle that kindled in her eyes. The children he could hardly bear to look upon.

"I'm sorry, sir. But I though you should see it." Harper had actually thought it would make things seem better, though from the pallor of his officer's skin he wasn't sure that was absolutely true. "I'm sorry if I was wrong..."

"No?" Sharper closed the case with a snap. "No, you were right. I was a fool to think..." He broke off, then started again. "Thank you." He straightened.

"It was in his desk."

"I see."

"Mister Hogan said I could take it."

"Ay, he would."

Harper couldn't think of anything else to say. After a while, Sharpe took away the need. "Pat, thanks for everything."

"Anytime, sir. Anytime."

"Good. Well, we'll be marching soon."

"So rumour says. It'll be good to doing something again, won't it, sir?"

"It will at that, Patrick." Sharpe looked up suddenly with a wide smile. "Well, Ramona will be wondering what's become of you, you'd better go and let her know you're all right."

"Aye, sir."

"And thanks again." Sharpe moved away, then turned back as if suddenly thinking of something. "Oh, and Pat, while you're at it — get rid of this." He handed over the portrait case, his finger scarcely lingering on the smooth apple–wood. "I won't be needing it." And he was gone, ducking inside his own tent with a finality that left no doubt as to his wish to be alone.

Pursued by a nagging feeling of doubt, Harper went off to find water, food and as much alcohol as he could lay hands on. He wanted to get blindly, gloriously drunk. That way he might forget the past week. The same as Sharpe needed to. Though that might need a bit more than an indulgence in wine. What the Captain needed was a battle. Something to get his teeth into that involved no feeling, no decisions other than those he made so well. For Sharpe, the simplicity of life and death would always be easier to deal with than the wild complexities of love.

The disquieting thought brought him up short in surprise. Had it been that?

Maybe. Though now neither of them would ever know.

There was shame in that. To be laid firmly at Hogan's feet, along with more than a handful of other crimes. Harper cursed softly, the Gaelic a mere breath in the evening air. Then he shook himself. This was no place to be maudlin. Sharpe would need prompting to get back to himself. He didn't need a sergeant suddenly turned fey.

That brought a smile to his lips. Fey, indeed? Almost as mad a thought as his Captain in love with another man, when what he needed was a nice rich wife to keep him warm when the war was over. There was no doubt that he would live through it. Harper would see to that, regardless of what Mister Sharpe might think or want. Yes, a nice soft handful of a wife. He grinned, that would certainly make the captain forget. Harper nodded to himself and walked on, seeing Ramona begin to run towards him.

* * * * *

PART I | PART II | PART III