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