WRITTEN IN DUST,
CARVED IN BONE

by Kitty Fisher

PART THREE
Wingham, Kent. 1816

With winter baying at his heels, it took close to three times as long as it should have done to reach into the weald of Kent; three days of hard travelling that stretched his weakened endurance to the limit and hardened his determination. Escaping London just before a blizzard closed all the southerly roads, he bought and bribed his way by coach and horse, struggled on foot, and was confounded at every turn by the weather. Persistence won. Finally he reached a village where the one man foolhardy enough to be out — a doctor hurrying to some urgent appointment and just able to spare time to answer the ragged stranger's questions — knew Carlyle by name. Satisfaction in knowing his quarry was so close to hand was enough to keep Sharpe warm, enough to make him set off on foot to walk the last few miles, careless of the dangers. Luck, however, was taking care when he did not, for a farmer, heading home, was willing to take his pony and trap two miles out of their way for the price of a silver coin. Impatient, scarcely civil, Sharpe sat wrapped deep in his coat, talked in grunts of assent about the weather and the war, and with face freezing and his hands stiffened into his pockets, waited for the miles to so slowly pass by.

It was close to dark, and storm clouds were an ominous purple on the horizon when the farmer pulled hard on the reins, for the pony was as eager to be home as he. With a curt word that offered direction and a quick farewell, waiting only until Sharpe reached his pack from the back and, stiff and awkward from the journey, put foot to the ground, the farmer was flicking his whip, urging his pony homewards. It was a night no sane person wanted to be out in, and only the seductive glint of silver coin had persuaded him to so rash an expedition. Already the wind was whipping through the trees and though sunset was still more than an hour or so away the birds were quiet, safely nested against the coming storm. With a baleful glare at the sky he cracked the whip again, heading for home without a single backward glance.

Left alone at the entrance to Carlyle's estate, standing by a great plaque set into the wall that, despite the attention of time and weather, still unmistakably said Ashcombe House. Sharpe walked to it across frost matted grass and touched the stone, fingering a crack that almost parted the words in two. At last, he was here. Pulling his great–coat tight around his body, he shouldered the pack, oblivious to the wind that clawed at his skin with icy already in its fingers.

Pillars flanked the path, both scaly with grey lichen, their lions couchant cracked, with crumbling manes and blind, pitted faces. A gatehouse loomed just behind and to the right, but its windows were boarded up, its door barred. There was no one to challenge him as he began to walk down the path, swinging into the familiar, even pace that covered ground with such ease. Part of him wondered at the desolation, knowing it to be strange, but there was little of him that wasn't intent on Carlyle. From the road, the drive meandered first through a patch of dense woodland. If the Carlyle family had wanted to hide the existence of their house from the world, then that task had been accomplisehed. Anything could have lain unnoticed behind the oaks and chestnuts and ashes that guarded the way. An army could have hidden, though Sharpe supposed there was only a house. The drive itself was in a state of disrepair, overgrown with frost–bitten weeds, pitted so badly a carriage driving its length would have risked an axle or worse. No wonder the farmer had not wanted to come this far; Sharpe had considered it merely impatience, but perhaps he had known more than he had said. It had certainly been made clear that he thought little of his passenger — though his money was as good as an earl's — and he hadn't hidden his surprise that one such as his passenger should be visiting such an illustrious, if strange, nobleman. For strange he undoubtedly thought Carlyle; a hermit he'd called him, with words far less easy waiting on his tongue, held back only because he wasn't sure to whom he spoke.

Sharpe shrugged curiosity about the ill–kept drive away and pressed on. After a while, the woodland thinned and he finally emerged from what in spring would surely be perfect blue–bell woods, onto a slight decline. It swept the path gracefully away, through gentle curves that could be seen despite the overgrown bushes that snagged at it, across to the house. That it was such a building was only certain because part of the long roof was starkly outlined against the dying light of the day, with six great sets of chimneys rising above to twist blackly into the sky. Nothing else of the building could be seen with any ease, for here the same strange state of decay that had left the road untended and the gate–house boarded–up, had spread to the gardens, and the walls of the house were indistinct, blurred by trees and ivy, the whole deeply shadowed by the dark, almost purple storm–light that was rapidly transforming into night.

Sharpe walked on, past apple trees that hadn't been pruned in years, their branched woven together in a pattern more dense than the finest lace, past crumbling ornamental walls, past fallen trees and a single sorry pond. All the shrubbery was overgrown, the plants and bushes running wild, a battle for supremacy fought in once neatly tended flower–beds. The remains of a grand lawn rustled with tangled grasses and weeds, a sundial lay tumbled to its side, cracked and over–run with creeper.

On drawing closer to the dark edifice that emerged at the end of the path, Sharpe could finally see why it crouched, apparently hiding in the grounds, every wall was shrouded with ivy, its dark leaves as one with the shadows. Here and there lighter patches showed where a few windows remained clear of the dark mass, but most had been consumed by the thick foliage. Not a single light could be seen. Had he even known of such things, it would have been impossible to tell in which style the house had been built. As it was he knew neither how old it was, or how large, merely that it was there, housing his quarry.

If the interior was as neglected as the outside, then the place would be a ruin, barely habitable. Yet this was where Carlyle lived. Sharpe stood still and stared, oblivious of the wind that tangled the hair about his face and made the skirts of his coat snap at his heels. If it hadn't been for the anger that kept his spirit going he would have felt pity. Or something close to it. As it was he very carefully felt nothing but the preoccupation which drove him on.

Eventually he moved, though slowly, careful of his footing in the now almost complete darkness. The storm was very close, the first warnings of snow stinging his cheek as he waited, the sky ominous. Every now and then he looked up from the ground to the house, his expression quite smooth, patient and sure, until in one room, as if summonsed by his need, there appeared a light.

He almost smiled.

Certain now he went forward, deaf to the storm that was bringing a blizzard stalking behind him, seeing nothing but the light that glowed mutedly from full–length windows that were clear of foliage. Firm–footed, he walked on until, with one hand resting lightly on his sword, he came like a thief up to the window and peered through the glass.

And there found Carlyle.

Sharpe's heart missed a beat and it was as if his breath strangled in his throat. After so long, to have retribution so closely within reach. He could hear his heart beating, even over the sound of the wind rustling the ivy and whistling through the eaves; pounding loud enough to wake the dead.

Carlyle was alive. Suddenly Richard Sharpe remembered how to breathe.

The man he had loved sat before a blazing fire, a book held lightly between his hands. A branch of candles was by his side, their light casting wild shadows about a room that proved to be a library. A fire blazed in the grate and a glass and decanter stood ready by his side, as if he was settled for the evening.

Carlyle himself appeared no different. He sat upright, one ankle crossed elegantly over the other. Dressed in dark clothes that appeared to be long breeches, boots, and double–breasted coat, its buttons catching the firelight, he sat oblivious, as aloof as ever. His hair was the same, perhaps darker now it was away from the sun, but the same length, falling in the same way across his brow. The sombre, magnetic face, calm and abstracted as it was, remained just as impossibly attractive.

Sharpe, to his own shame, found the old need was still there. He had wanted so much from this man, needed... Despite the cold his body was like a flame, lust for the first time in months stirring his loins with a more than sullen interest.

It was too much. Pushed beyond endurance, Sharpe gritted his teeth and denied his flesh. Instead of screaming he took hold of the handle and pushed open the doors, bringing winter howling into the warmth, walking into the peaceful scene, bringing fury and bitter resentment as his only companions.

In the chaos of guttering candles and billowing curtains he held quite still. Then he smiled, slowly. "Hello, Jamie."

The seated man had looked up in surprise, but now that quick reaction was gone and he sat stone still, scarcely blinking, the surprise turned to a strange mix of fear and acceptance, as if a moment he had wanted, yet dreaded, finally had happened. He made no move though, merely waited, the dancing light from the fire casting him as a statue in bronze.

"What, no word for an old friend?" Sharpe let his pack slide to the floor and eyed the seated man with derision. "If you can remember who I am of course?"

"Richard..."

"Ay, just like a bad penny." Sharpe smiled, a wolf's smile and without waiting for any answer turned to close the long windows behind him, fighting the wind a moment for mastery. As the catch caught, immediately it was almost quiet, and when one of the logs on the fire cracked the seated man started visibly.

It was as if a spell had been broken and Carlyle wiped an unsteady hand over his face

Sharpe turned back, brushing the first flakes of snow from his face. "Go on, say something."

"You're alive."

"Ay, I'm no ghost."

"No ghost..." A light that might have been welcome died in Carlyle's eyes, changing to confusion. He shifted slightly in his chair, the book he had been reading falling unheeded to the floor. "Richard..." He cleared his throat, one hand clutching tight to the chair, one giving a small, empty gesture to the air. "I thought, I was told," he amended, "you were dead. A court–martial..."

Sharpe wasn't really listening. "Dead? I was dead to you the moment you laid that whip on my back. Couldn't be said no to, could you? Couldn't be honest with me about anything?"

Carlyle swallowed so hard Sharpe could hear the sound and he smiled bitterly again, as he stripped off his great–coat. "Well, if you aren't going to invite me in, I'll have to do it myself. Mister Sharpe — I'm plain mister now, chucked out the army as soon as Boney was safely under lock and key — please come in, warm yourself in front of the fire. Don't mind if I do, most gracious." He mimed a bow.

"Richard, how..?" Carlyle made no move to stand, his face reflecting his confusion, his thoughts clearly completely at sea.

"How am I here? I saw you on the street in London. Followed you here. You never did tell me where the family estates were, did you? Well, there was no need, I found you anyway."

Carlyle's eyes travelled the length of Sharpe's body, though there was only something akin to pain visible on his face. He nodded his head slowly, apparently calm, though the hand holding on to the carved arm of his chair was white knuckled. "Yes, you found me. But why?"

"For this." As he spoke, Sharpe was already moving, raising his right arm, the open–handed blow rocking Carlyle back, the sound shocking, echoing around the high ceilinged room. Sharpe stood his ground, his breath fast and light, watching coldly as the impression of his hand slowly formed on the pale skin. He blinked, then gave a twisted smile that was laden with derision. "There, that's how gentlemen do it, isn't it? A duel, nice and neat. You get the choice of weapons. Though I suppose I should warn you, I'll kill, whatever you choose."

"I..." Carlyle swallowed, and nodded as if there was no surprise in the challenge at all. But his voice was thick, stumbling, so he tried again. "I'm not sure...

"No, don't hesitate, choose now." Sharpe loomed over the seated man, the banked fury and utter implacability leaving no room for negotiation.

Carlyle closed his eyes and leant back, giving up on what he been going to say he swallowed, the muscles in his throat quite visible as they moved. "Pistols. I choose pistols."

"I thought you might, so I brought a pair with me." Turning on his heel Sharpe went back to the pack he had dropped by the door, crouching down he pulled it open and pulled free a long wooden box. He was intent, calm, utterly dispassionate, his face as austere as a judge. "They're not quite Manton's but they'll do us. One of them fires slightly to the left, but if you choose that one I'll tell you, so you can compensate." He nodded to himself and, fairness guaranteed, stood again and looked around, seeing the piles of dusty books, papers, details strangely catching his eye to be stored in his memory. A spider spun a web blithely from the mantel to the thick frame of the hunting scene that hung over the fire–place, Sharpe watched, then with a slight shake of his head turned away. "This house looks big enough, where's a place we can use? Or do you want me to start clearing the furniture in here?"

Carlyle dragged his eyes away from the dull glint of metal. "A duel..." He frowned for a moment, his thoughts clearly sluggish. He ran a hand through his hair, then gave a slow nod, raising his head to answer, slight hesitancy catching at every breath. "At the top of the stairs, the corridor... "

But Sharpe wasn't waiting for precise directions, he had taken the candles and was relighting them by the fire, the taper steady in his hand before it was tossed into the flames. Almost before Carlyle had climbed stiffly to his feet he was gone, out the door, moving lightly up the wide stairway that rose, shrouded in the accumulated dust of years, from the empty, echoing hall.

He was standing in the bitterly cold gallery, surrounded by portraits of long–dead Carlyles, stripped of his uniform jacket, the candle–light bright on the bleached madness of his face, when the one living Carlyle came to meet him.

"Here." The case of pistols was open on a once ornate, now peeled and stained, side–table. He gestured with a cold, long fingered hand. "Choose."

"Richard." This time Carlyle almost felt the flinch his use of the name inflicted. "...Sharpe, let me say something..."

"No. Choose?"

"Sharpe." Carlyle reached out and touched one shirt–sleeved arm, only to have it snatched hurriedly away as if his fingers were formed of flame. He stared at the wild anger that pursued the other man, the pulse that beat so clearly beneath his jaw, and made his choice without further delay, reaching without care for the nearest weapon with a sigh that clouded in the icy air.

Sharpe nodded as if the choice was the correct one. "Ay, well I'll have the one that doesn't quite fire true, which is just, as I've used it before." Sharpe turned away and, with hands that to his disgust somehow didn't quite hold steady, loaded the gun with powder and shot. "There." Carlyle made no move to his own, standing leaning against the wall with his eyes lowered to the narrow, threadbare carpet that paved a way across the floor. "Come, I'll load yours too." Sharpe waited, then was rewarded with a nod. This time his hands were steadier and after a moment he passed the weapon over.

"Thank you."

Sharpe gave his companion a hard stare, then looked away. He began to pace out the floor. After a few moments he returned Carlyle. "I reckon we can take ten paces each, then turn and fire. Agreed?"

Carlyle shrugged, the pistol held loosely at his side. "Whatever you wish."

The other man's indifference merely serving to add edge to his anger, Sharpe took up his position roughly half–way down the long, narrow corridor and waited without patience.

Untroubled by the other man's clear need for haste, Carlyle rested his pistol down and carefully unbuttoned his jacket, peeling it off and carelessly throwing it into a dark corner. He met Sharpe's raised brow with a slight shrug. "I wouldn't want you to be disadvantaged by not being able to see me." His waistcoat followed the same path. Then without another word he took up his pistol and went to stand at his position.

Sharpe barely waited for the other man's back to settle against his own. As soon as Carlyle's shirt brushed his he gave the word: "Now."

Ten paces, each counted out loud by a single voice. Wild shadows dancing about them, the single branch of candles their only light, they moved, the counting a steady knell that wove around their soft footsteps, around their unsteady breath. As the numbers neared the end Sharpe's voice dried and faded until the 'one', which he forced from his mouth in a half shout. He was turning on his heel, aiming even as he brought up the pistol, firing, seeing too late, far too late, that everything was wrong.

The sound of the discharge was shocking in the enclosed space, reverberating around the walls, rattling the windows, leaving his ears ringing. He waited, shocked. For there had only been the sound of one weapon firing.

Only one.

Sharpe took a breath and focused on Carlyle. It was true. The other man was standing, merely having turned about to face his opponent. The gun was held at his side. Sharpe doubted if it had ever been raised.

Yet he himslef had fired.

Sickened, glad beyond measure that he had missed, Sharpe waited.

So this was what death truly felt like. Sharpe straightened his shoulders, staring unblinkingly ahead. He wouldn't tremble, wouldn't beg. For whatever reason, he had missed, there was no chance Carlyle would make the same error. Something deep within him rejoiced.

It was as if time stretched beyond its own confines. He watched as Carlyle, with all the time in the world, slowly lifted the pistol, saw clearly the strange passage of emotions that passed across the pale, set features. Sharpe waited. But instead of aiming at his opponent's heart, Carlyle turned the barrel to one side and fired straight at the wood–panelled wall.

As the powder–smoke cleared, Sharpe finally took a breath, letting it out in an unsteady stream.

"There, are you satisfied?"

Carlyle's voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his meaning. Sharpe nodded, the anger gone, the bitterness burned to less than an echo in his soul.

"Are you?" The question was repeated very softly, almost in a whisper.

Sharpe nodded. "Ay. I missed." He raised his head as Carlyle gave a soft laugh, his eyes narrowing with acute suspicion. "And you deloped. Why?"

"Because it seemed the sensible thing to do." Carlyle wasn't laughing now. He was standing very still. "But you are wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

Carlyle closed his eyes and the pistol fell from his fingers, to thud dully on the bare wood of the floor. His lips quirked into a sort of smile, then he took a long breath that seemed to make him wince and his words, when he spoke, come out roughened. "You didn't miss."

Sharpe started forward, finally seeing what the shadows had hidden; the dark stain that made the white cotton cling to skin. He was moving even as Carlyle crumpled slowly to the floor. Throwing his own weapon to one side, Sharpe was on his knees, at Carlyle's side without knowing how, holding the warm body in his arms, seeking the bleeding, praying, tearing his own shirt for something to staunch the dark flow that welled from a neat hole just by the line of a rib. He paused at the sight, then felt with his fingers across the smooth back. But there was no second hole to show if the lead shot had made its escape.

"Come on, you bastard, you can't be dead."

Carlyle coughed and opened his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because I won't let you."

"But it's what you wanted." Carlyle's voice was weakening, his eyes sliding closed as he lay in a careless sprawl. He sounded quite puzzled.

"Jesus, not like this." Sharpe was working hard, panic close by, tapping lightly on his shoulder. "You should have fought me fairly. Do you always cheat, you bastard?"

"Do I? Maybe..."

"And why delope, you could have had me?"

"I know." He opened his eyes and laughed, though it ended in a harsh breath of pain, his lids abruptly falling closed.

"Fool..." Then Sharpe leant forward, and caught the rancid smell of brandy. Suddenly, he knew that Carlyle was foxed, worse, he was blind, stinking drunk. "More than a fool." Sharpe ground his teeth and cursed himself for not seeing what was under his nose. "You should have told me you were drunk."

Darkly bruised eyes opened, amusement glinting behind the pain. "You didn't ask."

"Jesus?" Sharpe wiped a hand across his mouth and fought hard with panic while he tried to think what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that Carlyle couldn't be allowed to die. There had to be someone around to help. "Where'll I find your servants?"

A slight movement could have been a shake of the head. His strength clearly fading, Carlyle whispered, "There's none left."

"None? Jesus..." One thing was for certain, he'd only bleed to death lying in the cold. "Very well, so you live in this great place on your own, so you must have a bedroom, tell me where is it?"

But it was too late, Carlyle was unconscious.

"Damn you?" Sharpe lowered the body carefully to the floor, then stood up and looked up the length of the gallery. He stood still, undecided for a moment, then taking hold of the branch of candles with a bloody hand, went in search of Carlyle's bed.

He walked swiftly to where the corridor branched, then, taking a gamble he turned right, and began to open doors. The house smelled of dust and disuse. The first two rooms were full almost to bursting with a jumble of furniture, none belonging where it was stowed. The third was empty of all but a swathe of spider–webs. He cursed and pressed on. The next was huge bedroom, empty of all but the shell of a four–poster bed, no mattress, nothing else but wood. He closed the door and tried not to become frantic. But luck was on his side, behind the fourth door he found what had to be Carlyle's room; a room that looked as if its owner spent a lot of time within its confines.

Crossing to the bed, he pushed aside the accumulation of papers and books that were strewn across both it and the table by its side before putting the candles down. There was another branch by the wall and he quickly lit them, though most were close to the nub. He'd need more candles, and hot water. Not to mention heat.

Against all hope a fire was laid in the grate. After a few moments he had it alight and though his breath caught tight in his throat with urgency, he waited until it burned brightly enough for him to place a log from the basket by the wall at its centre.

He stood and tried to think. What else, what else?

Hot water. A kettle sat on the floor and a quick look found a hook hinged to the wall inside the fire–place. His hands were shaking and he cursed his own clumsiness, filling the kettle with water from a jug, spilling some on the hearth, finally hanging it over the fire to heat, knowing it would take too long but trying anyway.

What else? He tried to think, to reason this out, but his thoughts were knotted with the impossibility of the task, and it was impossible to tear one thread free. Yet he knew he had to try. He squeezed both eyes shut, what was needed here? One answer came at once. He stood and pulled back the bed–covers, stripping them away so they wouldn't be fouled by what he was going to have to do, unsure if there would be any clean ones to replace them. And towels. But where? Why didn't the bastard have a house–keeper. He searched a press by the darkened window, found a pile of linen that would do instead and went to place it by the bed. What else? He couldn't think.

So he went to fetch Carlyle.

Taking one branch of candles to light his way, he paced alone through the empty house, turning at last to where the injured man lay crumpled and unmoving in the long narrow gallery, pale as death and almost as cold.

Sharpe took a keen breath, but laid a hand against the cool neck and sighed; life still held its own. For a long moment he kept his hand where it was, feeling the pulse, seeing the face he had dreamed of — hated — for so long; thought dead, wanted dead. Now that all he had hoped for was so close, he could only feel confusion; and know that whatever else, this man could not be allowed to die.

Spurred by the thought, yet refusing to examine it too closely, Sharpe put the candles down and, with an effort, hefted the body into his arms. Straightening unsteadily he gritted his teeth and made his way slowly away from the light, until there were only shadows and then further. As the candle–light disappeared from his peripheral sight he walked a few more steps, then at last he sighted the doorway; a thin trickle of light spilling into the hall to act as beacon.

He was shaking when he carefully placed Carlyle on the bed, his own body pushed to the limit of its endurance. But there was no time to rest. Quickly he went back to where they had fought the farce of a duel and picking up both his jacket and the candles, considered. There was one last thing. His hand sheltering the candle flames as best he could he made his way back down the stairs, through the hall and into the library. The fire had died almost to nothing, but the room was still warmer by far than any other. Briefly he considered bringing Carlyle here, then discounted the idea as the less the wounded man was moved the better. He should have thought of here first, damn it all. Sharpe bit his lip then gave up temporarily on recrimination.

The brandy was where he remembered, and that was what he wanted. The bottle was about half full; well, that would be better than nothing. He glanced around, but there was nothing else of any use. Bottle in hand, he went back to the bedroom.

Sharpe pushed the door closed with his shoulder and went to the bedside. Carlyle was breathing faster, sweat beading delicately across his brow.

It was now or never. Sharpe put the candles down and unstopped the brandy. He took a small mouthful for himself, needing it to steady his hand and harden his nerve. The rest Carlyle would need.

Leaving the bottle by the bed he went over to the fire. The water was hot enough, he gave a sigh of thanks, and most importantly the poker he had lain in the flames was begining to glow brightly at the tip. Wiping a hand over his face, Sharpe tried to think what he might have forgotten, certain there was something — probably a thousand things — but his brain was incapable of working them out.

He poured a bowl of water and took it to the bed–side table, then, settling himself on the edge of the wide bed, removed the pad he had pressed to Carlyle's wound.

The single hole was small and neat, blood still oozing from it slowly. Not that it would be neat for long. Sharpe fought grim reluctance and picked threads of cotton from the wound. It needed to be clean, he knew that much. Over the years he'd seen this sort of thing done too often, had it practised on himself more times than he cared to think about. But this was different. This was Carlyle.

He wished whole–heartedly for Harper. The Irishman would have dealt with this without a qualm. But Harper wasn't here. Sharpe took the knife from his boot and cleaned it by the simple method of pouring brandy down the blade. More of the same was dribbled into the wound, making the unconscious man gently twist. Sharpe held his breath, his eyes fixed on the strained face, but his luck held and Carlyle remained unconscious.

Holding the blade over the wound for a moment, he offered a quick prayer to whoever would listen, and tried to find his nerve. The silence was quite eerie; Carlyle's breathing harshly in counterpoint to the gentle sound of the fire and the bluster of the storm on the window panes, the house so empty around him. Quite still, he listened, the smell of blood filling his head, darkness and shadows clustering around him. There were no choices here. Not one. He took a long breath and with a steady hand, sliced neatly into the wound.

Carlyle moaned as pain battled with his stupor, but he still didn't wake. Sweat cold on his own brow, Sharpe explored with the tip of the blade, eyes closed, every sense willing steel to find lead. He was whispering under his breath a mix of nonsense and invocations, despair at his own inadequacy making his fingers clumsy. Then he felt the light return of pressure that could never come from flesh as the knife–tip touched its goal. He moved the blade and the muffled sound of metal grating against metal made him want to smile. Sharpe opened his eyes and held quite still. The shot wasn't as deep as he had feared, but slightly to one side; it must have hit a rib then lodged itself two fingers' span under the skin.

Holding his breath tight in his lungs he eased the blade around and slowly, very slowly, levered the offending piece of metal upwards, watching almost in disbelief as the small thing slid obscenely from Carlyle's side.

With a shuddering breath it was done and he held the shot in his hand.

He had no needle or thread to stitch the ugly gash closed. Fire would have to do the job in their stead. Tossing both knife and shot aside he splashed more brandy onto the wound before fetching the poker from the fire to the bed and, careful not to think at all, holding his own weight across the still body, touched the red–hot tip to the incision.

Even unconscious, Carlyle convulsed, rising to a brief moment of clarity where he looked Sharpe straight in the eye before twisting away from the pain. Sharpe had to force his own arm into immobility until all the ragged flesh was seared closed and the small vestige Carlyle had shown of coherency was once again swallowed by the dark, the body pathetically limp under his own.

His hand no longer at all steady, Sharpe carefully placed the poker back by the fire, then went back to pad the wound with a clean shirt, tearing another into strips to keep it in place. He tried not to think while he removed the remains of Carlyle's clothes and pulled the covers over his body, an endeavour that in the end proved quite easy, for his mind seemed to have gone past the point where anything had any meaning. He stood by the bed, shock setting his own body shivering. Then, clumsily, he turned and finding a window that was clear of ivy, forced the heavy frame up and painfully vomited bitter, brandy laced bile into the darkness.

An hour later he finally allowed himself to slump into an arm–chair dragged from another room. He'd briefly explored the ground floor and found in the kitchens a pump that worked. The water he had carried up to the bedroom in two pails, putting some on to heat before beginning the task of cleaning away the blood that seemed to coat himself, Carlyle and almost everything in the room. He'd hunted for food and eventually found a cheese and some stale biscuits, wolfing them down where he stood in the vast but abandoned kitchens. Exhaustion dragging at every step he'd finally returned to the bed–room, to see with a heavy sense of satisfaction the seemingly easy sleep that Carlyle had lapsed into.

The bed was wide enough, but his whole being shied away from the thought of slepping there, so he forced weary limbs into movement and went to search the nearest rooms. In one he found a raggedly upholstered chair, with the last of his strength he dragged it to Carlyle's bedside, before falling into it and closing his eyes. He needed to stay awake. But he was so tired. Beyond exhaustion, giddy with relief that there was nothing he needed to do at this moment. He settled further back, letting his head rest on the high, curved back of the chair. The storm whistled around the house, rattling the window. He didn't hear it; for the next thing he knew it was morning.

* * * * *

Confused and momentarily bewildered, Sharpe awoke suddenly, sitting forward in his chair with a speed that made his over–used muscles protest vigorously. Muzzy headed, still heavy with lack of sleep, it took a moment for realisation to come to him as to where he was and why. He looked around, early daylight was filtering through the windows, a strange green light as if the ivy growing over the glass was trapped within it and had been brought inside. The room was a mess, a record of the last night's work, and it would need to cleared, sometime. Sharpe eyed the room, finally bringing his gaze to the bed in front of him. All confusion left him, and in its wake came the sure belief that the unmoving form in the bed was that of a dead man.

Pushing himself from the chair, Sharpe bent to hesitantly touch the pale face and almost gasped in surprise when dark eyes opened and met his.

"Carlyle?"

Carlyle blinked slowly, then licked his dry lips. "Richard... so I didn't die."

"No, no you didn't." Relief running through him, Sharpe found he was grinning like a fool and tried hard to wipe the expression from his face. "I dug the lead out of you. It wasn't too deep — glanced off a rib I think." He smiled again, pleasure that he hadn't succeeded in killing with either pistol or surgery wiping all sobriety away. "Didn't do you much good though."

"It wouldn't."

"No." Sharpe stared at the supine man as if he would devour him, noting the pale skin and the slight flush that ran across the line of each cheek–bone. He was quite hot to the touch. Too hot. With a plunge into uncertainty, he no longer felt elated. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes..."

Sharpe poured a glassful from the jug and, carefully sliding his arm under Carlyle's shoulders, raised him enough off the bed so he could drink, which he did, thirstily. Lowered back to the pillow, Carlyle closed his eyes.

With gentle fingers, Sharpe pushed the tangle of hair away from the still face. It was damp with sweat, the skin hot and clammy, for all that the room was quite chilled. Pacing over to the fire he set about rebuilding it from the ashes, waiting until a healthy blaze licked at the chimney before putting a fresh kettle of water hanging to heat. He needed more water, and food. Carlyle would need some sort of broth, something nourishing, if was to regain his health. They would need more candles, logs, seemingly a hundred things. The list of essentials multiplying in his head, Sharpe stood and with a brief, reassuring glance at the sleeping man, stepped over to look out of the window.

Where he could only stare in horror.

The storm had passed, but in its wake the entire countryside was blanketed in thick snow. There were no gardens to be seen, just a vast snowy plain stretching to the wood, where even the trees were canopied with great crusts of white.

"Jesus..." He whispered blasphemous curses to the grey skies, and wondered how on earth he was to find the things he needed.

"What is it?"

The weak voice pulled him away from the window. "Nothing, it's just been snowing."

"Ah."

"There must have been inches of it."

"Must be why it's so cold."

"There is that." Sharpe went back to the bed and watched through narrowed eyes as Carlyle struggled to keep awake. "I'll need to find some food — unless you've got some hidden somewhere that I didn't find last night."

"Try the cellar."

"A cellar, of course? Bloody stupid of me not to look for one." Sharpe softly berated himself, his eyes fixed on Carlyle's efforts to keep awake.

Carlyle blinked slowly, then licked his lips. "But I'm not very hungry..."

"You might not be, but I'm bloody starving. I'll be back as soon as I can." Don't die while I'm gone.

"I'll be here." And Carlyle slipped gently back into sleep.

Sharpe sighed. He watched the sleeping man, seeing a thin face with strong features. With his eyes closed, Carlyle seemed far less dangerous, less problematic to Sharpe's composure, than he was with them open. Those eyes saw too much, understood too much. Just like the man. It had been luck, in a way, that Carlyle had been drunk when Sharpe came looking for him, for if he had been sober, then the outcome would have been very different. They would probably have killed each other downstairs amongst the mildewed books. Or Carlyle would have manipulated it all in some way, and Sharpe would have gone back to London still full of the rage and bitterness he had carried for so long. All of which had now melted away. It was foolish to have let this man ruin his life. But then he knew himself for a fool, so why the surprise? There had been a time — a very short time, true — when he had thought Carlyle held all the future he needed in his hands.

Sharpe laughed dryly to himself. Standing watching the sick body of the man he had tried to kill, he knew himself released from the past.

Now all he had to contend with was the present. The future he couldn't even begin to consider.

He laughed again, the sound almost silent, the humour obscure even to himself. It had been too long since he had eaten, the world was starting to become a great joke. Lightheaded, he turned away from the bed and, closing the door firmly behind him, went in search of the cellar.

* * * * *

The house looked very different in daylight, though with ivy covering almost every window the interior was still shadowed. Sharpe walked back down the long gallery, wincing as he saw the great scar in the panelling that Carlyle's shot had left, and went on, down the wide staircase. Now that the storm was over it seemed, if possible, even colder. Sharpe retrieved his great–coat and pack from the library and set off to try doors.

Walking through the gloomy house he ignored the living rooms and headed straight for the kitchens. There, he tried once again to find something edible in the empty shelves and cupboards. Apart from more of the same cheese he had dined on the previous night, there was nothing.

Onward. Through long, narrow servants' hall–ways he went, finding rooms he couldn't guess the use of, finding disuse, dirt and a fine collection of rusting cooking pans. Collecting one that had miraculously escaped either rust or an encrustation of old food, he added it to his pack. In one room he found, much to his relief, a consignment of candles packed neatly in straw. He took a bundle with him and dragged the rest into the hall so he return for them later without having to look past all the same–looking doors again.

It would be an easy place to get lost in. Lost and unnerved, for the curious light that filtered through the ivy covered windows could do strange things to a fanciful imagination.

The maze of corridors turned to the left, and he knew he must be heading back to the main kitchens. He was running out of doors to try, and just as he about to be certain that the cellar was certainly a figment of Carlyle's own imagination, he found it.

The open door gave onto a pit of absolute darkness. But a storm lamp and flint were at the ready on a ledge just inside. It took a moment to light the candle, but immediately the stairs sprung into life and he could see. Carefully, not at all believing that the bare old wood would support his weight, he made his way down, his cracked leather boots tentative on each step, the light opening up the way before him.

In a short while he found out that the cellars were vast and, what was more important, they housed a complete treasure trove. At the foot of the stairs were rack upon rack of wine, the bottles caked in dust, but the liquid inside glinting with promise against the candle–light when he held one of them up. After replacing it, the dust on its dark surface now disturbed by trails from his fingers, he wiped his hand on the skirt of his coat and went on. Tucked into a niche in the brick wall there were a couple of barrels what was stamped as local brewed ale, another one of porter, and two smaller ones of brandy. At least he could drink himself to oblivion, if all else failed. Food was less visible though, and he pressed on.

The cellar branched where the wine racks ended, the right–hand fork opening up to a room full of various bits and pieces, things the household at one time or another had considered too useful to throw away, yet not worth storing in a more convenient place. Sharpe glanced quickly over the confusion of rubbish, and pulled at a chest to see what was behind it, in the process disturbing a couple of rats which he kicked away with a mild curse. He rooted around for a while, but there was nothing useful. There was no use he could think of for a steamer large enough to poach a turbot in, nor work out a way to utilise the ornate and hideously ugly table centre–piece that seemed to depict in graphic detail the deflowering of a group of women by a band of creatures formed of part man, part horse. He grinned at the sight, patted some curves, and moved on.

Retracing his steps, he took the other fork and found in the narrow corridor two more doors. Behind the first he finally found where the wood was stored. The room was large enough to hold a chopped forest, deep and with a trap–door to allow the logs to be delivered. A line around the walls showed where the stocks must once have reached to, though there was comparatively little left. What there was would be enough to last until after the thaw. Collecting some into a bundle he left it ready to take with him, and went to open the last door.

There, finally, he found something edible. There wasn't much, and most was well past its best, but it was food; a good few pounds of wrinkled potatoes, a handful of shrivelled onions and a mess of unrecognisable vegetables too rotted to be of use to man or beast. But amongst the depressing sight there was one prize — an untouched ham, hanging up high and safe from the rats, making Sharpe's belly rumble at the mere sight. He started it sliced, great pieces of it, pink and tender, so savoury, and had to stop, for the room started to spin around him and there was no time for weakness. At least he now knew they wouldn't starve. The food wouldn't last long, but long enough, with luck.

Bundling potatoes, onions, and a couple of woody parsnips into a sack he hefted it along with his pack onto his shoulder, taking the ham from its hook and tucking it under one arm he made his way up through the house, climbing the stairs slowly, glad beyond measure at the food he carried back to Carlyle.

The wounded man was still asleep, the unhealthy flush slightly more pronounced. Sharpe stood by his side long enough to rest a hand against his cheek and feel the sick man press towards the respite of cold fingers.

His own reaction was far too strong, too sentimental and he pulled away, denying it. Pausing only to steal a knife–slice of ham, he busied himself with the task of going back to fetch a pail of water from the pump in the kitchen and then sorting out the goods he had foraged for downstairs. He scrubbed and, sliding his knife from his boot, chopped potatoes, an onion, and a couple of turnips, tossing them all into heating water to cook. There was a screw of salt in his bag, but the ham might add salt enough. He hoped so, the salt was all there was and he wasn't at all sure when it could be replaced. Though quite what else he would be cooking he wasn't sure. Perhaps he could set some traps. There had been some wire in the cellar and rabbits would be easy prey in the snow. He could try and shoot something, though unless he found a shotgun of some sort, trying for game with a duelling pistol had little appeal, though if necessary he would do so. Likeliest of all was a call on a neighbouring farm–house. A trapped rabbit for the pot in exchange for some home–made bread, now, that would be good.

As the stew cooked, the savoury aroma filled the room and his stomach churned needily. To distract himself he went back to Carlyle, and found him in one of his brief periods of wakefulness, struggling to get out of the bed.

"What are you up to?"

Half sitting, Carlyle held still, a frown deep between his brows.

Sharpe was at his side, unsure. "What do you need?"

"Richard..."

"What?"

"I'm trying to find the chamber–pot."

"Oh."

"It's becoming rather pressing..."

Sharpe nodded and with quiet efficiency helped Carlyle, then assisted him back into the bed where he lay, breathing unsteadily.

"Better?"

"Mmm. Did you find anything downstairs?"

"Ay, the cellar." Sharpe rubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek and grimaced. "There wasn't a lot of use in it. Found a ham though."

Carlyle looked vague for a moment, then his expression cleared. "I remember, Tom Jenkins sent it over. I forgot why."

"Maybe this Jenkins bloke was trying to keep you from starving to death." Sharpe raised a brow pointedly. "Anyway, I'm cooking up some broth for you. And don't look like that, it'll do you good."

"I'm not very hungry." Carlyle took a deep breath and winced as his body clearly protested the movement.

"Be still." Sharpe was at his side, concern lining his face, a hand lacing through the hot fingers that lay outside the covers.

"Yes." Carlyle closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, staring directly at Sharpe. "Why do you care?"

Caught without a reason he could easily defend, Sharpe merely shrugged.

"You came here to kill me, I know you hate me."

Sharpe cleared his throat and tried to remove his hand but it was held too tight. Leaving it where it lay, he shook his head, forcing words from his own recalcitrant throat. "How? How do you know that."

"You told me so." Carlyle turned his face away. "And I know you must. Once I saw you, knew you lived. How could you not?"

Sharpe ignored the question. "Who told you I was dead?"

"Hogan."

"The bastard?" Sharpe shook his head in utter disgust, swept by a fury so intense that he shuddered. "If I'd known..." No, there was no hope there. Sharpe licked his lips and tried again. "He told me you died when they took your stronghold. Shot by one of your own men."

"I was. But I lived, the wound was nothing. By the time I recovered, you were dead. Or so I thought." Carlyle closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them when most of the pain wouldn't show. "So you came back here, there was nothing left for me in Spain."

They were silent for a time, then Sharpe helped his companion to a drink of water laced with a good shot of brandy.

Carlyle lay back with a gasp, the fever burning bright in his eyes. "So, why do you stay now?"

Sharpe shrugged, turning his face slightly away. "I wouldn't let a dog die the way you would've done; alone and bleeding like a stuck pig."

"So defensive, so defensive." Carlyle closed his eyes and almost smiled. "It doesn't matter. I'm glad you stayed." This last was just a whisper, for he was already asleep.

Sharpe slipped his fingers from the loosened grip, and stood straight, staring at the man on the bed, seeing pictures from the past: a man dancing alone in the firelight, all pride and dignity; a lock of hair hidden behind the image of a woman; the whipping–post, Carlyle's face spattered with blood that was not his own. There had been more happiness than he had ever known, more pain — though perhaps that was fair, payment for the good times. Now there was what?

Hope, perhaps. The past dead and buried at the very least.

As long as Jamie lived.

Sharpe reached down and cupped the face his dreams had remembered more times than had ever seemed fair. Jamie. He could think of Carlyle as that again. Maybe one day he would even call him by it. He let his hands fall away, but he remained still, watching. The freckles were stark across the strong nose, the wide mouth drawn into a thin line, a flush betraying the fever as it begun to run unchecked through his blood. Sharpe found himself trying to will health into the man, trying to break the fever with the strength of his own determination. For Carlyle would live.

He had to.

* * * * *

An hour later the room smelled appetizing enough to tempt a dead man. Sure that Carlyle was still asleep, Sharpe spooned some of the stew into a bowl and ate ravenously, scarcely pausing long enough for the food to be cool enough not to burn his mouth. It was nearly a soup, the vegetables having broken up and the pieces of ham fallen apart, but it tasted of heaven and steadied the slight shake that threatened the steadiness of the room every time he stood up.

Finally done, the bowl scraped clean, he spooned out a second portion, much smaller and this time he broke up whatever lumps of parsnip and potato remained with the back of the spoon before taking it over to the bed, setting it down before gently touching Carlyle's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up, I've made something for you to eat."

At first there was no reaction, then Carlyle stirred listlessly and came awake, his eyes showing confusion, doubt, then finally recognition. "Richard..."

"Don't sound surprised to see me, I'm not going anywhere?"

"Good." Carlyle blinked, then began to push himself up.

"Wait a bit?" And Sharpe was there easing him upright, settling the pillows behind his back.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Sharpe smiled, guilt hidden, though imperfectly disguised. "Now, If I hold the bowl do you think you can manage?"

As the stew was lifted towards him, Carlyle grimaced. "I really am not very hungry."

"But you have to eat something, and this is all there is." He stirred the spoon about. "Come on, just a mouthful."

Carlyle saw the concern and understood. "Very well..."

But he only managed three mouthfuls before his stomach rebelled. Afterwards, he lay back, gasping, a hand held to his side.

"Sorry."

"Jesus, it should be me apologising." Sharpe put the hastily reached for pot back onto the floor and tried to still the erratic beat of his own heart. "You did say you weren't hungry..."

"I did..." Carlyle smiled weakly and reached out a hand to touch Sharpe, his face expressing discomfort but also a certain mild amusement at it all. "But thank you."

"Next time, just insist, and I won't force you." Sharpe breathed out deeply, and shook his head bitterly. "I'll kill you with kindness as quick as any other way."

"No, don't say that?"

"It's the truth though. I've no idea what to do? You need a physician — a surgeon, not a cack–handed soldier with no more idea than.. than a..." He broke off, lost for words, a slight flush staining his pale cheeks. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. But you got the bullet out, and I'm still breathing."

"Ay." It was grudging, the assent, but after a while Sharpe nodded. "Ay, you are at that. And I'll try and keep it that way."

"Thank you." Carlyle closed his eyes with a sigh.

Sharpe held still, feeling the dry heat that burned where Carlyle's hand rested against him. He reached out and ran his fingers across it, the hand and wrist were dry and hot to his touch, like parchment about to burst into flame. "I'm going to have another look at your wound."

"Be my guest." The words were muttered quietly, Carlyle clearly beyond care.

Sharpe fetched water, and then gently eased the cotton dressing away. The ragged hole in Carlyle's side was livid, puffy and inflamed. Working intently, Sharpe cleaned it again and rebandaged the whole with clean strips from one of the torn up shirts. Even before he had finished, Carlyle had drifted off to an troubled sleep, though when the weight of Sharpe's body left the bed the sick man murmured, tossing his head restlessly from side to side. A single touch on the brow stilled him, and after a while Sharpe walked uneasily back to the fire.

He stared for a long time into the flames. Then, stirring himself, added more wood, careful of the supply but needing to keep the room warm.

Back at the bedside, he briefly rested his hand on a shoulder, bringing Carlyle momentarily awake. "I'll be back soon, rest easy."

But there was no recognition in the darkly shadowed eyes, none at all. Sharpe let his hand fall to his side. Carlyle breathed some words, but there was no telling what they may have been, then his eyes slowly closed.

Gathering all the stained cloths, the bloody water and the bodily waste into one bucket, picking up the dirtied bowls, and hooking his pack over one shoulder, Sharpe took a look around the room to reassure himself that all was well. The guard was in place before the fire and the man in the bed slept. He nodded, and went in search of whatever sanitary arrangements the house might provide.

There was nothing fancy, just a cesspit dug to one side of the house. It was covered over by a lean–to and almost disguised by the bank of snow the wind had pushed up against it. Luckily, it was nowhere near full, so that was at least one thing he wouldn't have to worry about.

In the kitchen yard there was a standing pump, but despite his best efforts it remained frozen solid, so he had to go back into the scullery and use the one there, thankful that the drain was clear. Methodically, he cleaned all the crockery and the bowl he had used for water when he doctored Carlyle's side. Then, with a bitter curse at the cold, stripped off his own clothes and washed as well he could in the stone sink, ducking right under the pouring water until at last he felt clean, even if he seriously doubted he would ever be warm again.

Without lingering, he dried himself and, pulling clean linen from his pack, dressed in shivering haste. Despite being cold, he felt immeasurably better.

Buttoning his jacket he wandered back into the main kitchen and stared around him. There was no way he was going to get any of this working. The fire–place was big enough to spit–roast an ox and the range looked beyond his capabilities even to light. The small fire upstairs would have to be enough. Besides, Carlyle himself must have been using it, as the kitchens looked as if they had last seen service before Bonaparte first cast his acquisitive eye at Russia.

Opening a few doors, he poked around without much enthusiasm but found nothing he had not already discovered. Cutting a large piece of cheese, he popped a bit in his mouth and, chewing contentedly began to collect together all the things he needed to take back upstairs. With his hands occupied, his thoughts travelled in circles around the chaotic events of the past few days. For what quirk of fate had let him see Carlyle in London at all? To have seen him at all, to have recognised him, even when he was riding away. Sharpe shook his head in bemusement. Another hour, another minute, and he would maybe forever have been ignorent of Carlyle's continued existence. He remembered the moment of recognition, the pain of it, the hope that had flared before being ruthlessly extinguished. To see him, but only when riding away...

Riding.

The thought was a nudge to his memory. All at once he knew that somewhere there had to be stables, and somewhere Carlyle's horse was probably starving to death. Idiot, he berated himself.

Pulling on his great–coat, he went out into the cold. With a simple choice of right of left he chose to try to the left. He followed the building along, past the ruins of a kitchen garden — where later he thought he might try digging for any roots that had survived the frost and snow — past what seemed to be the bare foundations of a part of the house now demolished, stones and shards of it sticking sadly through the snow, to just where the house ended, and there, about two hundred yards away, he found the stables.

He trudged across the expanse of snow, breath crystalising in the thick air, and found himself walking through a cobbled yard, bordered on two sides by buildings. In one was set a a pair a doors, and going up to it, he slipped the icy bolt, pushed hard until the wood gave, then stepped inside. Someone had cared for the wellbeing of his animals. The stables were fine and airy, with high windows to give light and five loose–boxes running down each side of the central area. Sharpe stared at it all with a lowering sense of dismay; if there was a horse in each of them there was no way he could look after them all. Even if there was enough fodder, which seemed unlikely. One by one he stared into each stall, walking along, boots ringing dully on the stones which paved the floor, he paced on, thankful to realise that they were all, except for the last, empty. Inside that last one he found the bay Carlyle had been riding in London.

Sharpe murmured to her, and quietly unbolted the door to step inside. The mare turned her head to him, dark, intelligent eyes quite curious, but not unfriendly. He stroked flanks and, with a slight nod to caution carefully made his way to the mare's head. She snorted companionably, and Sharpe smiled. "All right, lass?" He rubbed his fingers down the lighter patch that marked the nose, pleased at the softness and the way she butted at him in a companionable way. The horse had been quite happy, and hay hung from a basket hooked into the corner of the stall. Someone was looking after her, and the sight made Sharpe frown, for there was no way Carlyle could have placed it there. There was enough for a day at most. "You're set fine, aren't you. So, whose been seeing to your feed then? He said all the servants were gone, but did he mean it? Not that I've seen sign of anyone around here."

The horse nudged at him again, snorting into his chest.

"I know, I know. But he'll be up and about soon. I hope. I don't think I've killed him yet?"

Stating the thought out loud made Sharpe inexpressibly happy, and he pulled on one of the dark ears, laughing as the horse pressed closer for more. "I know?" He scratched for a while longer, both of them quite content.

"I'll have to go, you know. He might be wondering where I've got to. Probably thinks I'm stealing the family silver...." He grinned. "If there is any. I haven't seen much sign of luxury round here, but maybe he's just miserly, eh?"

With a last pat, and not waiting for an answer, Sharpe stepped out of the stall and re–fastened the bolt. He whispered a good–bye. Instead of heading back the way he had come, just on a whim, he walked to the far end of the stable–block and went out of the door there.

In the snow he found part of an answer to his questions. Footprints led both to and from the building, tracing slightly unsteadily towards the woods. So Carlyle had someone from the village to look after his horse. Maybe some farmer's son. Sharpe nodded in approval. At least it meant one less thing for him to worry about himself.

In an almost contented frame of mind he walked back to the kitchens and, stamping the snow off his boots, gave a sigh of relief, for even the unheated room was warmer than the outside. Rubbing his hands together to warm them he took a last look around, then collecting all his gear, set off for the sick–room.

He walked back to the hall with an easy stride, his boots sounding dully on the old wood floors. A long forgotten feeling swept over him, and it took a moment before Sharpe realised that it was contentment. Despite the worry that nagged incessantly at his thoughts, he wanted to be here. Even caught as he was between hope and memory, it was enough just to be here. He knew Harper would laugh.

It was coming up to dark, the day so short this deep into winter. What he needed to do was to set candles around the house so if evening ever caught him by surprise then he'd have light. Not that he really thought he get lost, but just in case. Tomorrow, he'd see to that tomorrow.

He stepped into the hall, pulled the door to the servants' area closed behind him and began to head for the stairs. He took just three paces before what he saw in the gloom made him hold stock still, his brain completely refusing to believe what his eyes told him.

For there, at the foot of the stairs, somehow half–clothed in shirt and breeches, was Carlyle. He was sprawled across the floor and for all the world looked quite dead.

"Jamie..."

Sharpe's own single, whispered word broke him free of the shock that held him captive. Letting everything he carried fall to the floor with a clatter, he ran to the still figure and was kneeling at his side.

"Jamie..." He reached out and touched. Alive, and burning up with fever. Blood was soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the boards of the floor. For a dreadful moment, Sharpe was bereft of any coherent idea of what to do. He stroked his fingers through the sweat darkened hair and wished he'd never set eyes on this man in London. Never come here. Never realised that the hatred he'd carried in his heart for so long was so close to love.

But they were all idle wishes.

What was real was here. And dying.

Somehow Sharpe managed to lift the inert body into a sitting position and he paused there, gathering strength, knowing that Carlyle was not a light weight, to find the man in his arms looking at him.

"Richard Sharpe."

"Ay." Sharpe tried to smile at the accusation, but had to give up. "That's me."

"You went away."

Sharpe shook his head. "No, I just came down here to clean up. I did tell you."

"You weren't there..."

"I'm sorry?" Sharpe swallowed hard and muttered a curse under his breath. He shifted and began to lift, knowing the movement would hurt the other man, hating to even think about the state his wounded side would be in after all this. "Did you fall down the stairs?"

"I didn't want to flog you, but I had to."

"Never mind about that now." Sharpe winced, not wanting to think about that, not wanting to even acknowledge it had happened. "Just rest, you'll soon be back in bed."

"No." Carlyle wits were wandering, his thoughts lost somewhere else. "No, I did want to. I wanted to punish you for being able to leave me. For being too strong." He gave a small laugh, the sound quite harsh. "You bled so much. Afterwards, I was like Lady Macbeth, washing my hands because every time I put my hand to my face I could smell your blood; feel it ingrained into my skin."

"Don't talk like this? You didn't kill me."

"No." Carlyle shuddered, almost imperceptibly. "I couldn't...such a coward."

"Well, I for one am glad you didn't have me shot."

Carlyle blinked. "But you died anyway."

Sharpe heard the strength in Carlyle's voice begin to slip away. Carefully, he stood up. "No, not me — I'm here. Now keep quiet and I'll get you back to bed." He started up the stairs, the burden awkward in his arms. He was sweating after a couple of steps.

"I've dreamed of you, Richard Sharpe. Night after night until I thought I would go mad." The voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, the thready whisper muffled by the wool of Sharpe's coat. "Even your ghost is more comfort that my own company." His voice changed, becoming weaker. "After all that time when you sat with me night after night, only to then go away. I went looking for you, you know. Didn't find you...glad you came back."

"I'm not a ghost, a ghost couldn't carry you like this." Sharpe reached the top of the stairs and rested for a moment, breathing hard, his breath clouding the air with every exhalation. "A ghost couldn't bloody well shoot you."

He shifted the way the body lay in his arms and sighed in relief as Carlyle's head fell back. Out cold again. "Thank Christ for that..."

He pushed on, trying not to see the dark stain that spread so with the slow inevitability of ink spilled on soft paper across the crumpled white of Carlyle's shirt: the pallid skin that burned so to his touch; the long line of vulnerable throat, and the erratic pulse, beating so faintly against the stretched skin.

It was a long way to the bedroom, further than he thought possible as with each step he feared for his burden's life. The weight that tore at the muscles of his shoulders and made his knees burn with effort, but the burden he carried in his arms was not near as heavy as the weight that lay on his heart. He rested for a very brief moment at the end of the gallery, propping his back against the wall, afraid that without that small respite he would topple his charge to the floor, finish him off by weakness as his attempt with a bullet had failed. Finally he staggered on, sweat trickling in cold runnels down his skin, his face almost as white as the one tilted back across his arm, until he was there, the muscles in his arms and legs quivering with effort as he carefully placed Carlyle back on the bed. Clumsily, Sharpe straightened the long limbs, stripping off the clothing that the sick man must have struggled so hard to put on. The covers he pulled as high as he could, though Carlyle tried to kick them away, the fever burning dry and hard through his stupor.

There was nothing Sharpe could do but keep the wound clean and Carlyle warm. Carefully, he washed the blood away. The ragged hole was a mess again. Briefly, he considered recauterising it, but in the end he didn't dare, unsure if that original treatment was in fact the cause of this fever. He chewed his lip. There had to be needle and thread somewhere.

He weighed up the odds and decided that it was worth the risk. If Carlyle came round before he returned, then... well, then he wasn't sure what would happen. But he had to look for the tools he needed.

Heading downstairs at a run, coat–skirts flying behind him, he went first to the wreck of a drawing–room, certain he had seen something that might be what he was looking for. The snow was still there, piled inside through the broken glass, spilling across the rotting Turkey carpet. He paced around, and there, by the ottoman was an ornate sewing box, the kind no woman he had ever known would use. Sharpe remembered the lady in the miniature, remembered her for the first time without bitterness, and wondered if the inlaid box had belonged to her, to Carlyle's wife. She had looked elegant enough to own something this beautiful. Well, if it had been hers, and whether she was alive or dead, he hoped she would appreciate the use one of her needles and a length of her fine silk was about to be put to. Picking a few other things out of the box he closed it with a snap, and was already standing, turning on his heel, mouth set in a grim line of absolute determination as he raced back through the shadowy house

* * * * *

Some time later, absolutely how long he was never sure, Sharpe had the last stitch knotted into place and he snipped the brandy–soaked thread with a pair of scissors fashioned quaintly into the shape of a diving bird. This time the repair would hold. As long as Carlyle didn't go around trying any more tumblers' tricks. At least this time it truly was clean, for Sharpe had drawn a thin twist of cotton from the wound; a scrap of Carlyle's shirt that he had missed when cleaning it before. Hopefully its removal would be enough.

He traced a finger over the wound, scarcely touching the heated skin, so deep in frowning concentration that he jumped when an ice cold hand grasped his wrist.

"Jamie?"

"Why can I touch you?"

Startled almost out of his wits, it took Sharpe a moment to understand. He opened his mouth, trying to think of what to say, but Carlyle was there first.

"Richard... It is you?"

"Ay, it's me. No, lie still, don't try and sit." He winced as fingers dug into his skin with uncanny strength and Carlyle tried to pull himself upright. "Jamie, you mustn't, stay..."

"But I can feel you... touch you. How is this?" Carlyle suddenly stilled. "Is it because I too am dead." He seemed to consider, then smiled, a slow smile that grew to a blaze of unnerving happiness. "Richard, is it true?"

"No, stop such nonsense? We're both alive, though you won't be if you don't hold still and stop bleeding. Damn it..."

Somehow he fought the sick man and held him, ending lying on the wide bed, an arm around Carlyle's shoulders, one hand held firmly in his own. "Now keep still." Sharpe gritted his teeth to hold the determinedly slippery body quiet, but all at once all the fight drained away, leaving Carlyle heavy in his arms. He muttered a prayer and lay still, breathing hard himself, his forehead on the bony curve of Carlyle's shoulder.

When Carlyle whispered something, something too soft for him to hear, he moved slightly. Shifting, he stared into the candle–lit face, his belly twisting at the sight. Carlyle was very pale, the lines around his dark–shadowed eyes drawn deep, the bones of his face stark, his breath shallow and uneven. Sharpe cursed. "Don't die on me, damn you."

Carlyle stirred, blinking unseeingly, his voice was rough, slow. "You can't damn me. I'm damned already." He gave a small smile of triumph. "Why else do you haunt me?"

Sharpe could have howled in frustration; just how did you convince someone that you were not a ghost? "Carlyle, I'm flesh and blood, the same as you — feel me." He pressed closer and gave the shoulders a gentle shake.

There was sweat trickling down the sick man's skin, his face ice cold to the touch. He was shivering again, confusion painting his proud face with doubt and pain. "Do I truly live?"

"Yes?"

"And you are dead."

"No, sweet heaven, can't you understand." It seemed more important than anything to get Carlyle to fathom that they both lived, as if everything depended on that simple fact. If Carlyle knew he lived, then he would remain so, if he doubted it... No? Sharpe refused to consider that.

"Listen to me. Jamie?"

The hooded eyes opened slowly at the sound of the long unused name, though there was little other than fever in their depths. After a second they cleared and he answered quite distinctly. "I'm listening."

"You do know who I am."

"Richard Sharpe."

"Good." Sharpe smiled encouragingly. "Am I alive?"

Doubt creased a furrow between the fine brows. Carlyle shook his head slowly. "No." He paused, then took a deep, uneven breath. "They killed you; strung up by a rope, so Hogan said."

"Hogan was a lying, devious bastard. The hanging was a ruse, a carefully set up plan to fool an enemy. See, no noose mark." He tilted his head back and shifted so the light played on his throat, waiting until Carlyle's eyes registered the fact with a frown of confusion and a hand came up and traced lightly over the smooth skin.

"Maybe ghosts carry no scars."

"Ghosts may not, but I do." Triumphant, Sharpe held up a wrist that had an old mark across it, but the light was too weak and he cursed. With a shrug he was out of his coat, slipping the overalls straps from his shoulders and pulling his shirt free. With a twist of his torso he took hold of Carlyle's hand and drew it to his back, making him touch the scars. "Feel? Believe me — I am no ghost."

Sharpe felt the fingers drag uncertainly across his skin and waited.

"Alive..." The single word was so full of wonder.

Not even simple assent could Sharpe make pass his own lips, so he simply nodded.

"Alive. So you are." The hand dropped away and Sharpe took it in his own, tucking it back into the bed. Carlyle was slipping away into fevered sleep, but as he went, he whispered one word: "Good."

It was too much. Sharpe stood quickly and went over to the hearth, bending his head towards the flames, one arm leaning hard on the mantle. In the dark heart of the fire he watched a shadowplay of the past, seeing the mistakes build one upon another, right up to the sham of a duel.

And still Carlyle could say it was good that he lived. Knuckles against his teeth he cursed softly, fluently. Though quite where he would have changed his decisions, if given them to make again, he was unsure. Indeed, the only fact of which he was certain was that he revelled in Carlyle's pleasure at his own continuing life.

Perhaps after all, something could be salvaged from the wreck of their lives.

He blinked into the flames, and bit hard on his own skin, feeling the bone. Closing his eyes, feeling the heat against his bare chest, Sharpe swallowed hard. Then, curling a lip at his own thoughts, turned back to the fevered man in the bed.

Carlyle was exactly where he had been before, lying flat, restless and shivering even in what pretended for sleep. Sharpe stood for a long while, just watching. Then he turned, finding blankets to heap on the bed before going back to the fire, to bank it high. He drank some water himself and ate a few mouthfuls, the cold stew tasting of nothing in his mouth.

The fever was worse when he returned.

For a long time he stood, blinking occasionally, face expressionless. Then, snuffing all but two candles which were right by the bed, he kicked off his boots and stripped. Naked, he waited the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then, lifting the covers, he slid into the wide bed, drawing Carlyle as close as he dared.

Almost immediately the racking shivers eased. Carlyle muttered something unintelligible, his head twisting uneasily on the damp pillow.

"Shh..." Sharpe soothed softly with his voice, his hand rising to stroke unsteadily through tangled hair. When the shivering began again he was ready, bracing the long body with his own, careful of the wounded side, of everything, as he fought the fever the only way he knew how.

It was a battle of sorts. One he felt as unprepared for as a new recruit, but one he refused to lose.

All through the hours he whispered words of encouragement, until his mouth was dry and his voice hoarse. He wiped the hot, burning face with a cloth, held tight when the shudders threatened to toss them both to the floor. He talked of everything, just using words, from lyrics to old songs Hagman had sung and verse Harris had recited, to list of soldiers' names, both the living and the dead, British and Irish, Spanish, Portuguese, French, even Indian. List after list, word piled upon word to build a wall Carlyle's soul could not escape through, anything to keep him. Sharpe fought with every weapon he possessed, holding Carlyle to this world with utter determination.

Then, after quite how long Sharpe was never certain, though the candles had guttered and fire sunk into the palest embers, the awful bouts of shivering faded away and sweat, clean, healthy sweat, broke out on every inch of Carlyle's body. He woke briefly, blinked up at Sharpe's face. Then, with the seed of a smile in his eye, he slept.

Lost for words Sharpe held still, hardly daring to believe it might be over. Though sweat–damp, Carlyle's skin was warm to the touch. Not hot nor cold — just warm. Sharpe sighed softly, and wincing as he moved muscles locked tight with immobility, untangled his legs from Carlyle's and pulled back, preparing to climb out of the bed. But a soft movement stopped him, and he lay back, resting his head close to the other, holding his hand in his own.

In truth he meant to only stay a short while, but exhaustion betrayed his intentions, and without even realising that it was already tomorrow, that the long night had passed in the fight for Carlyle's life, he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Carlyle was watching him when he awoke.

Sharpe blinked slowly, searching for any memory at all that might explain why he was here. Then the remnants of sleep slipped away and he knew.

He knew that all was well.

"Morning." Sharpe coughed on the word, his voice as unwieldy as rusted chain.

Carlyle's eyes narrowed into a smile. "Good morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Carlyle considered for a moment, clearly taking slow inventory. "Much better. Something I believe I should thank you for."

Sharpe shook his head very slightly in negation. Neither man commented directly on the fact that they were in bed together.

Carlyle let the smile spread to his lips, showing a glint of teeth.

"How long have you been awake?" Sharpe began to sit up as he spoke, but a hand stilled him. He lay quite still, watching its bony strength against his shoulder. A wave of yearning swept over him and he denied it, trying to see the hand as an object, not as part and parcel of something he had denied himself right to have. The fingers were strong, though there was too little flesh on it. On all of Carlyle in fact; the bones around his neck were near skeletal... No. Reaching up he raked through his disordered hair, dislodging the hand as he did so, finding breath easier as a result.

"A while."

"You should have woken me."

"No, I enjoyed watching you. And I'm too sleepy to do much."

"Can I get you anything."

A lazy blink, then, "No, I drank some water, used the chamber–pot." Carlyle stretched slightly, feeling his body as if it was forged anew. "I'm quite content."

Sharpe looked at him, and believed it. His skin was beginning to regain its natural health, his eyes were clear. Apart from his thinness, and the dark marks like thumb–bruises under his eyes, he looked like something approaching nearer to health than death. Sharpe nodded. "Good."

"Though I wouldn't mind a wash sometime. I stink."

Sharpe grimaced. "That surely makes two of us."

"Maybe." That look again.

"I'll get the fire started again, heat some water..."

But he was speaking to himself, Carlyle asleep in the space of a breath. He nodded in satisfaction. It was much better for Carlyle to be asleep than to be awake. He'd heal all the quicker.

It was also remarkably easier to think without those honey–dark eyes fixed on him.

Sharpe climbed out of the bed, shivering in the sudden cold. Dragging on his greatcoat over his nakedness, he knelt by the fire and built it up from the embers, crouching where he was until it flamed bright, roaring away, wood cracking and spitting as it burned.

When it was ready, he put water on to heat and standing, considered the bed. Carlyle slept in a sprawl, but the sheets needed to be changed, they were filthy, probably still damp. Something that should be remedied if he didn't want the fever back.

Sharpe went over and checked on the sleeper. Then, pulling on some clothes under the greatcoat, left the room in search of what he needed.

Luck went with him, and at the end of the corridor he found a small closet full of household odds and ends. There were more candles, sheets, pillows that the feathers were coming out of and a pile of mothed quilts. Pilling as much as he could carry over one arm he staggered back to the room.

Carlyle was still asleep.

Tossing his coat aside, Sharpe sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Softly, so as not to wake him too fast, he spoke Carlyle's name, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle shake. "Hey, wake up? I need to change the bed–linen."

Heavy eyes blinked open and focused. Then closed again, though it was clear Carlyle was awake.

"Come on. Or you'll catch your death on top of everything else."

A stubbled cheek twitched in amusement. "Oh, all right..."

Sharpe pulled back the covers, then held out a cleanish blanket for Carlyle to wrap himself in. "You can sit by the fire until I'm done."

"Yes, sir." Carlyle sighed, then began to awkwardly ease himself out of the bed. Sharpe had to help him, and to keep hold of him once he was upright.

"Come on, sit down."

Giddy, suddenly made aware that he was less well than he had thought, Carlyle obeyed without murmur. Eased there by Sharpe's careful hands, he sat in the chair by the fire and lay cautiously back, eyes closing.

Sharpe watched him, making sure that he could feel the warmth from the fire, not knowing that the intensity of his own gaze burned with more heat than simple flame ever could. He jumped slightly when Carlyle waved a hand at him, muttering, "Go and do the bed, I'll be fine," without even bothering to open his eyes.

It didn't take long to strip the covers back and to replace the sheets and blankets. Sharpe had even found fresh cases for the pillows so that when he finished the bed looked good enough for a king. Or at least a lord.

A lord who needed a wash before he went anywhere.

The room was wonderfully warm, the fire efficiently doing its work, banishing the cold. Sharpe thought that also it might be a warmer day than the previous ones. When he peered out of the window the snow still covered the ground, but the first signs of thaw were there and the trees were all brown bark, not white as they had been. The day was brighter too, it was already past noon and a very faint trickle of sunlight was finding its way through the grey clouds.

He turned back into the room, pausing for a second, then going to crouch at Carlyle's side. "The bed's ready."

"Lovely."

"And the water's warm."

"I must be in heaven." Carlyle rolled his head against the back of the chair and opened his eyes. They were calm and clear.

"It was Ashcombe House the last time I looked, and I reckon heaven would have more than a bowlful of hot water."

Carlyle sighed theatrically. "You might be right."

"Reckon so." Sharpe hesitated, then nodded at the water. "If you stay where you are, I can wash you."

Doubtful, Carlyle turned his head to look at the waiting bowl. "I'm sure I can do it myself."

"And break those stitches?" Sharpe tapped a finger on the worn arm of Carlyle's chair. "Not likely."

"But..."

"No buts. Just do what you're told."

Carlyle smiled slightly, and Sharpe was suddenly aware he was doing exactly what the other man wanted. The awkward feeling slipped away almost immediately, as soon as the smile went from Carlyle's eyes. Sharpe blinked, and it was as if he had never felt a shadow. Carlyle couldn't be manipulating him, he was nowhere near well enough. It was a joke to think anything else.

Sharpe shook himself, and going to the bowl knelt down, reaching into the water to ring out the cloth he had torn from a sheet to use as a flannel. A thought struck him, and he sat back on his heels, staring at the long, elegant feet that stuck out of the enveloping blanket. The feet weren't particularly grimy, but even so... "I don't suppose there is a cake of soap anywhere?"

"On the dresser, next to my razor."

"Of course." Sharpe stood up and walking around the room found a cake of speckled soap nestling in a china dish. It amused him to see it was of the finest quality, smooth and refined; when he brought it to his nose he could smell the unmistakeable scent of lavender. Going back, he knelt down at Carlyle's feet and worked the soap into the cloth, commenting, "Nice."

"Mmm. There's some I brought back from Spain somewhere."

Most people brought back a sword, or some tawdry scrap of jewellery, trust this man to bring back soap. "You did?"

"It must have got put away somewhere." Carlyle frowned slightly.

"Probably in that treasure–trove of a cellar. Do you ever throw anything away?" Sharpe looked up from washing Carlyle's knees; they were as bony as the rest of him but unaccountably appealing.

"Yes. But not for a while. Things have been pushed aside rather than be sold or disposed of. I haven't cared very much to bother, in truth."

"The house looks as if you've neglected it for a long time." Sharpe was at the strong–muscled thighs, careful of the trickles of water, trying not to wet the chair too much. The hairs here were very fine, but almost dark against skin pale enough never to have been touched by the sun. There was a small scar, just on the inside of one leg, curiously shaped like a crescent. Sharpe ran his thumb over it as he washed, and fought the urge to bend forward and place his lips across its curve.

He had already decided that he'd have to divert to a different part of anatomy rather than continue further upwards.

"It is quite shameful I suppose, but I haven't cared about anything."

Sharpe stilled, one hand flat against skin, the other at his own side, resting on his own corduroy covered thigh. Water dripped down his arm. "Neither have I."

"No."

They sat quite still, a tableau of realisation.

After a moment, Sharpe let out a long breath. "Harper's gone."

"I am sorry." Carlyle remembered the big man, so protective of his officer. "Dead?"

"No, thank Christ. Married and back in Ireland with a pack of brats. He's got an inn somewhere in Dublin and is probably up to all sorts of roguery." Sharpe paused, his gaze firmly downwards. "He kept me together, afterwards. Then, back in England, after he went..." An eloquent shrug said all the rest.

"A soldier without an army. And I came back here, to where I swore I would never return."

Silence.

Sharpe broke it. "It's all been a mess."

"Oh, yes. A most royal one..."

Sharpe shuffled around on his knees and began on an arm which was elegantly pushed from the blanket for him. Here the fine hairs were pale gold. "Still, you might have had me killed. That would have been worse."

"So true." Carlyle's eyes were intent on Sharpe, fascinated by the absorbtion with which he performed his task. "I'm glad I didn't."

"Good?"

Carlyle raised his arm and sighed as the cloth cleaned away the sweat in his armpit. Raising the other arm made him wince slightly, but he hid it, quite happy to have Sharpe leaning over him, his face close enough to kiss. If it had been right. Which it wasn't. Not yet.

He breathed again when Sharpe straightened.

"Shave?"

"You'll have a great career as a valet if you aren't careful."

"Hah?" Sharpe raised his eyes and ignored the comment. Standing behind the seated man, he worked lather into his beard. The cut–throat razor was plain, the blade expensive; nothing like the ornately elaborate one Carlyle had been using in Spain. Sharpe wondered what had become of that, indeed, of all those plundered riches. Left to rot, or plundered in turn, he supposed. There was probably some old soldier, English or French, maybe even Spanish, using it on his chin before going out to milk the cows, or setting down to work at some trade. Sharpe wished whoever had it well.

This blade cut through the beard stubble with ease. Sharpe held one hand to the tilted neck, the razor firm in the other. He could see the beat of blood beneath the fine skin; the pulse just under the jawline. As each bladeful of stubble–specked lather was lifted away to be wiped on a spare cloth, he resisted the temptation to smooth his fingers over the exposed skin. He couldn't allow himself any leeway. Couldn't. In the end he shaved Carlyle with more speed and efficiency than he usually used on himself, quite relieved when it was done.

Not that shaving was to be the worst.

He coughed to clear his throat, then made an empty gesture with his hand. "You'll have to stand for the rest, can you manage?"

Lulled into contentment, Carlyle was certain he could do anything. "I should think so. Give me your hand to get up."

He leant on the mantle while the rest of his body was washed clean. Sharpe unwrapped the bandages and pronounced himself happy with the wound, then bandaged it again with clean strips of cotton.

Neither of them said anything while Sharpe washed the more intimate parts of Carlyle's body, though the awareness between them could have been cut into the finest ribbon with a knife.

Afterwards, eased gently into the clean bed, Carlyle sighed with contentment, ignoring the weakness and the way his muscles trembled. He was asleep almost immediately.

Sharpe watched him for a long time, wondering at it all. Then he dressed properly, rebuilt the fire and, taking the soiled chamber–pot and the pail of dirty water, went downstairs to forage.

* * * * *

Carlyle slept for nearly all of the next day and then through the night. He woke occasionally, urged by the needs of his body, but sleep was what he needed most. Sharpe fetched and carried, read with interest, though without much concentration, books from the library which he carried with him up to the bedroom. Most of the time he sat in the big chair and watched the sleeping man, remembering. The next morning, the third after he had been shot, Carlyle woke clear eyed. He ate the food provided for his breakfast and complained when Sharpe inspected his wound. He was getting better.

Sharpe ignored the grumbling, too reassured by the sight of the healing flesh to take any notice. The stitches would be able to come out in a few days. See how much Carlyle complained then? Sharpe hid his slight amusement and began the days tasks.

He was walking back from the cesspit when he caught a glimpse of movement by the stable block. Putting the pot down by the kitchen door, he hurried down the side of the main building, his boots sloshing through snow melting into mud. The only noise apart from his footsteps was the steady drip of water falling from the eaves of the house, and the ivy rustling. The snow would be gone in a day, unless the bitter cold came back and stopped the thaw.

He trudged round the corner, cursing the state of his boots. One day soon he'd have to get a new pair. Throw these away and say good riddance. He grinned at the thought, suddenly aware that he really did care about things, in a way that he hadn't for long time. And it wasn't as if he couldn't afford to have a new pair made. He had enough money for that, at the very least.

Slowing his pace as he approached the stable, Sharpe saw signs in the mud and melting snow of other footsteps, ones smaller than his own. The door was unbolted and he walked through, the hinges screeching as he pushed it home behind him. At the noise the top half of a youth emerged warily from a loose–box, his face changing from welcome to blank surprise.

"Hello." Sharpe gave a lop–sided smile and nodded at the boy, staying where he was by the door so as not to frighten him. "Looking after his lordship's horse are you?"

"Ay." A whole body emerged, turning into a boy of about ten years old.

"She looked well when I looked her over — you do a good job."

The boy nodded an awkward sort of thanks, though he still looked uncertain, his eyebrows drawn together in a sort of scowl. "Who are you?"

"A friend."

"Where's his Lordship?"

The boy was clearly local, his accent the same as a soldier Sharpe had known who hailed from near Canterbury. "He had an accident, so he'll be in bed for a while."

"Is he all right?"

"He'll be fine." Sharpe considered the boy, who at least was no longer scowling. "How does he pay you? Do you need anything now?"

The dark head went slowly from side to side in a denial that clearly had to be thought about. "Dad sees to that."

Sharpe looked the kid over, seeing the relatively good state of his homespun clothes he would grow into soon enough, the battered but serviceable shoes that were on his feet. He didn't think the father was taking undue advantage. "What's your name?"

"Ned Maxted, sir."

"Well, Ned, apart from seeing to the mare, what else do you do?" Sharpe took a few paces into the stables, hands easy at his sides. He wanted the boy to trust him, and with the remains of his uniform and goodness knows how many days growth of stubble he probably looked as untrustworthy as you could get.

"I do whatever I'm asked. And I bring up baskets of food."

"Did you bring one today?" Eagerness put an edge to Sharpe's voice.

"Ay, it's by the door, I was going to bring it inside in a bit."

When he'd eaten some, more like. Sharpe grinned knowingly and after a moment, the boy smiled shyly back. He slowly produced an apple from his pocket. "Here, I took this."

"Keep it. It must be hungry work mucking out."

"Thanks?"

"Enjoy it. Do you come up every day?"

"When I can. Ma wouldn't let me out with the blizzard, but it should be all right now."

"Good. You can bring the food straight into the kitchen from now on." Sharpe considered. "I don't suppose I could get you to bring more. I'll be staying for a while..."

The boy nodded, he understood about food, never really feeling that he got fed enough — a sentiment his mother would have been horrified at. "I'll tell Ma."

"Do you know how he settles up for it?"

"With Dad."

Sharpe mouthed the words with the boy and they both grinned again. "Tell him to come up and we'll sort it."

A nod.

Sharpe turned and pulled the door open, letting in a gust of cold air. About to leave, laden basket over his arm, he paused. "If we needed some help around the house, cleaning and the like, would your mother know people who'd be willing to come up here?"

"For money?"

"Ay."

"As many as you want."

"Great. When you come up tomorrow, come into the hall and give me a shout. I'll leave the basket in the kitchen for you to pick up before you go."

"Yes, sir."

Sharpe paused again. "And call me Richard, I'm no sir."

The boy considered, eyeing the battered greatcoat, the worn boots. He lifted his gaze to meet kind eyes in a hard face. "Are you a soldier?"

"I were."

"Did you fight in Spain?"

"I fought all over the place, now get on with your work."

"Yes, si..."

The shared grin again. "You'll get used to it. Bye Ned, look after the horse."

"Her name's Zanzibar." Ned called out, pronouncing the name as if it was the most exotic thing in the world, which in his world it most likely was.

"Very pretty." Though Sharpe couldn't imagine the boy whispering that to her as he groomed. "What do you call her?"

"Zany. Though she isn't, she's sweet tempered as they come." Wide eyes, the boy hastily amended any misconception he might have created.

"I know. And she's a fine piece of horse–flesh."

"A right goer, sir? His lordship, you should see him up on her. I want to ride like that one day."

Sharpe considered the image of Carlyle riding neck–or–nothing across the rolling Kentish fields. Very nice. "I'm sure you will." Sharpe refocused his eyes and smiled. "Just don't try it on Zanzibar. You'd have a lot of explaining to do with a broken neck."

"I won't."

"Good lad. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sharpe left the stables satisfied in many ways. Though there was one mystery opened, that of where on earth Carlyle had put the food brought to him. He certainly hadn't eaten it, he was too thin, and apart from the cheese there hadn't been a scrap in the house. Shrugging away that conundrum, Sharpe sloshed his way back to the kitchen door. He tried the out–door water pump, but it was still frozen solid. He gave it a kick, and promised himself it would be working as soon as he had the time to come down and work on it. Then with a rueful shrug he went back inside.

* * * * *

He closed the door behind him and immediately investigated the contents of the basket. Sharpe's stomach rolled in anticipation as unearthed two pies, from the smell of them one sweet and one savoury, next came some apples and a loaf of bread so freshly baked that he could almost imagine it was still warm. Treasure of treasures there was also a small eartenware crock of butter and another of honey.

A feast. One he hoped Carlyle would be fit enough to share.

Sharpe unpacked it all and wrapped it in a cloth to take upstairs when he was done. The basket, along with one of the apples, he left by the door for Ned.

Standing alone in the vast kitchen his nose wrinkled at the smell of himself; it hadn't been so bad out with the horse, but here, he stank as high as a barrack full of conscripts.. Stripping down to the skin, he tossed his clothes onto the floor. Then with great determination, for it was one of the more awkward baths he had ever indulged in, he manned the pump himself and washed, scouring the night's sweat from every inch of his body, using the soap he had brought with him. It had been years since he used soap as fine as this and it was odd to smell so sweet, the slightly spicy flower–scent of the lavender quite strange. At least Carlyle would be bound to like it, the soap was his after all.

Clean from head to toe, he pulled on his overalls, buttoning them closed, but leaving the straps hanging. Both shirt and drawers were beyond wear, so he tossed them into a corner to be washed some time or other. Cursorily pulling on jacket and boots, he piled all the things he needed into his arms and made his slightly unsteady way back up the stairs.

Carlyle was awake.

"Hello."

"Richard." Carlyle nodded in greeting.

Sharpe slowly unloaded himself of his burdens; food and wine on the table, chamber–pot by the bed, coat draped over the back of a chair, jug of water by the fire. He paused to lay some more logs on the fire, then stood and faced the bed, stretching slightly.

Carlyle pushed himself up on the pillows, inspecting his companion. "Starting a new fashion?"

Sharpe glanced down at his bare chest where it lay between the gaping edges of his jacket. "Looks like it. My shirt was fit for nothing, I expect its past even being washed. I was hoping I could use one of yours."

"What a shame," Carlyle drawled, his eyes the only part of his face to betray amusement. "I like it."

The food bundle was being opened on a table by the window. Sharpe paused in the process and glanced up in surprise. "You, are supposed to be ill."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate something fine."

Sharpe made an indeterminate noise; in the light of his own convoluted feelings for Carlyle, the compliment was somehow quite hard to bear.

A languid voice broke into his clouding uncertainty. "You are quite safe, you know."

"Safe?" Sharpe straightened.

"Mmm. Until I am better, of course." A twisting smile made light of the words.

"Idiot?" Sharpe shook his head, but he smiled in return, now sure he was being teased.

"What have you got there?" A fine tactician, Carlyle knew when to retreat. Especially as he fully intended to continue the battle another day.

"I met your stable–boy." Sharpe unpacked the food, and began to slice the savoury pie with his knife.

"I wondered why you were so long."

"He seems a nice kid. He does a good job on Zanzibar."

"Ah, so he told you her name."

"I was expecting Jenny, or Beauty — trust you to name her something so daft."

There was deep affection in the mock–derision, so deep and so obvious that a look of startlement was momentarily clear on Carlyle's face. It was gone before it could be noticed, but something changed, something indefinable in the bed–ridden man's demeanour. He paused in what he had been about to say, and then went on, with something quite clearly different, offering something close to confession. "I was thinking of going there, to the spice island."

"Why?"

"Simply because it was just about as far away as I could imagine." Carlyle gave a wry, expressive shrug. "But I didn't. I didn't even have the will for that." He winced, remembering his own self–pity. "The next day I bought the mare, and instead of taking myself away I named her Zanzibar. As a reminder I suppose."

"Of what?"

"Of my own inconstancy. My own lack of courage."

Sharpe blinked. Before now, had this man ever offered anything of himself beyond that which could be seen? No, he was aloof and contained. Mostly. But this moment of revelation, of trust, was quite different, and Sharpe saw it for what it was. He knew without doubt that he wanted to know more, that he wanted to know everything, every mystery, every flaw, every reason. Here, now, was an offer of friendship; something he knew had a value beyond the price of rubies.

Faced with such an offering, Sharpe found all the words tangled in his head, and though later he would know exactly what skilled phrase he should have uttered, all his lips formed were a gruff: "You've never lacked courage."

"No?" Carlyle's hand moved emptily in the air, then rested back on the covers. "You didn't know me then."

"I do know you though."

"Richard, the most cowardice I have ever displayed was in your presence."

"When?" Startled, Sharpe glared.

"When I let you go, rather than fight for you. When I used an excuse to almost kill you."

"That was cowardice?"

"The worst kind. The kind that lies." Carlyle swallowed hard, but his eyes were fixed on the man standing so still at the other side of the room, and his voice was quite steady. "I let anger and cowardliness rule my thoughts and actions. I should have talked with you, told you what I really wanted from you."

Sharpe straightened almost imperceptibly, his face slightly averted though his eyes were fixed on Carlyle as if with glue. "And what was that?"

"Whatever you wanted to give me."

"What if that had been nothing?"

Carlyle slowly shook his head, his long, ascetic face set in lines of determination, the arrogance and pride like shadows behind his eyes. "I am sorry, but I cannot believe that."

"Well, you'd be right."

The look between them held, until Carlyle smiled. "Good." He relaxed back against the pillows, eyes closing.

"You know something?" Sharpe, all tension gone from his body, wiped his knife clean and slid it back into its sheath. From the corner of his eye he watched his companion, assessed the exhaustion that deepened the lines running ran from his nose to his mouth, and drew the talk away from such intensity. What had been said was enough, for now. "I'm bloody starving."

"And I'm very glad I didn't go to Zanzibar?"

"I'll second that. Why did you want to go there?" Sharpe carried a plate over to the bed, a fork in his other hand. "Just because it is far away is no good reason. And where is it, anyway?"

"Off the coast of Africa, I knew someone once who had been there, the way he spoke of the place, it sounded as exotic as a fable. And it really is a long, long way away." Carlyle took the food and breathed in the wonderful smell with half–closed eyes. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Gods, I'm hungry."

"Good. There's plenty, Ned's mother must have sent extra to make up for there being none for the past few days."

"Mmm" Carlyle was eating.

"Though it doesn't explain where you stored the food she sent up before that."

Carlyle swallowed.

"Well? I thought I was going to have to snare rabbits to feed you." He went back to the table and cut a large wedge of pie for himself, taking it on a plate over to the bed, where he sat, leaning against one of the end posts. "Either that, or bore you to death with my vegetable soup."

Pause. Then: "I gave it to some tinkers."

"Lucky tinkers." Sharpe was licking the last of the crumbs off his fingers, the slice of pie having disappeared miraculously. He seemed not at all perturbed at what Carlyle had done, as if he had been expecting something of that sort.

"Well, they are gypsies really. And I wasn't hungry, they were."

"So you gave it all away."

"I wasn't expecting the snow." Carlyle looked as dignified as he was able. Which, considering the state of his undress and the sliver of carrot that clung determinedly to his chin, was a great deal.

"How often do they come around?"

"When they are hereabouts. They travel a lot."

"If they find someone like you everywhere they go — lucky them." Sharpe stood up, and reaching forward wiped the morsel from Carlyle's chin. "Though they'll have to find somewhere else from now on. Can't have you giving away food, you need to get fattened up."

"As do you?"

Trap sprung, Sharpe popped the carrot into his own mouth. "All the more reason to keep what you pay for." He swallowed. "Yes?"

"Yes." A deep sigh.

"Now finish up and you can have apple pie for pudding."

Instead of obeying, Carlyle put his plate down on his lap and reaching out, took hold of Sharpe's hand. "Thank you."

The abrupt change in mood caught the other man by surprise. "For supper?"

"For being here."

"You'd be a lot healthier now if I hadn't come back."

"No." Carlyle flinched at the bitterness in Sharpe's voice. That he felt such blame was wrong, if guilt was to laid at any door it was his own. "'No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.'" His voice smooth as honey, dark and warm as a summer's night.

"What?"

Carlyle continued the quote, "'Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.' Ah, what foolishness... What I am so badly trying to say, is that neither of us should dwell on the past." He murmured the words softly, then quietly admitted something he had long known himself. "If you hadn't come here, I'd be close to drinking myself to death."

"Is that what you were doing?"

"Trying, I believe." Carlyle shrugged one shoulder. "It seemed less effort than running away the other side of the world." Sharpe watched him, assessingly. The hand in his own was still weak, the face pale, deeply grooved from nose to mouth with the marks of pain. If this was preferable, then what had gone before must have been quite intolerable.

Something he understood so well.

He sat on the bed, his hip close to Carlyle's, frowning down at the hand still held in his own. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, to know if he was still wanted, to wonder if there was any future in all this beyond the faint stirrings of friendship, the lightening–flashes of lust. To know what James Carlyle saw for them both. But words were so hard, and his own uncertainty with the subtleties of emotion held his voice captive in his throat.

In the end, pushing long strands of pale hair out of his eyes with an unsteady hand, he asked nothing of what he was thinking. Instead, he simply looked up, his sombre green gaze remarkably steady.

Carlyle gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. "Can I have some cheese with my apple pie?"

Sharpe almost laughed. "Ay." He stood, taking his own hand back. "Finish up first, then."

* * * * *

By the time the meal was over, it was once again nearly dark. Sharpe pottered about, tidying things, caring for the fire and setting fresh candles while Carlyle slept. Himself, he was not tired. Yet, by the time he had trudged back to the kitchen a couple of times, cleaned the plates, fetched more wood for the fire and wandered out to say goodnight to Zanzibar, he was yawning as he climbed the stairs.

As he closed the bedroom door, for the first time he wondered where he was to sleep. The chair was too uncomfortable, and besides, Carlyle was unlikely now to slip into a decline. He supposed what he should do was find another room — heaven knew, there were enough of them. But something held him still, and after a moment, the sleeper's eyes opened and Carlyle blinked owlishly at him.

"Coming to bed?"

"Thinking about it."

"Well, don't hang around too long..." and he pulled back the covers and patted the sheets enticingly. "I'm tired."

"Ay."

Sharpe lent on the door and surveyed the bed. It couldn't hurt to sleep there. It was wide enough. And Carlyle was well enough.

He pushed away from the wood and began to strip off his clothes, though he kept on the shirt he had borrowed. The bed was warm, smelling of lavender and clean linen. Unknowingly he sighed as he climbed inside and pulled the covers up to his shoulder.

"That's better." Carlyle shifted slightly, making more room. He left his hand resting on Sharpe's arm. "Sleep well."

"And you."

There was little doubt of that, the breathing deepened almost before Sharpe spoke, and the other man was fast asleep. Sharpe smiled, and turning slightly, reached over and snuffed the candles.

Settling back down, Sharpe realised that he had scarcely ever slept with anyone else. In the army a bed had been whatever there was to hand, often enough the ground. He and Harper had considered a narrow straw mattress the height of luxury, and even then they rarely dared spend a whole night with each other, at least not alone. Rumour was a vicious beast, and neither of them had fancied rousing it. Instead they had snatched time together, stolen an hour here, an hour there. It been enough. Just. Women he had slept with, certainly. Slept with and not just bedded. Often in fine sheets and feather beds, in luxury supplied by husbands far enough away for them not to matter. He'd played the whore even then though, leaving the comfort early, rarely staying a whole night. Even with the women he had pictured himself in love with. Jane had been different, a wife was something a man woke with. Or should have. Often enough it had been an empty bed that greeted his opening eyes, his English wife finding more pleasure in others' beds than his own. He rarely thought of her now, could hardly bring her face to his mind, his brief, mindless infatuation for her long dead. Teresa had been different, and he touched the place where he kept her memory and knew she would have approved of Carlyle, a realisation that that made him almost smile.

Carlyle's breathing changed, but he remained asleep; a dream, perhaps. Sharpe listened for a while, feeling the warmth of the sleeping man lick at his own body. It was ridiculously companionable, lying there. Sharpe studied the darkness, the shadows caused by the fire. With a certain startlement, he realised that there was nowhere else he wished to be, and that the root of that contentment lay at his side. Strange games fate played with them all; from Spain to this. He closed his eyes, the lids heavy. Carlyle had looked so remote, that first time, standing on that balcony, observing, arrogant. And then waking from the beating with those large, skilful hands mending his body. Even then he had been fascinated, attracted. But then Carlyle had been a fascinating man. Still was. Still as full of mystery, though less unapproachable. Nothing like a duel to bring two men together... Sharpe smiled.

He drowsed, his mind forming schemes to set the house to rights. Carlyle needed someone to look after things. The ivy would have to go first. Let some light into the rooms. Then some cleaning would have to be done. It was all a task and a half. More. But nothing that couldn't be accomplished with money and a little help.

Both of which it seemed he could find.

Maybe before Carlyle left his sick bed.

And...

His thoughts petered out, lost in a haze as sleep overtook him.

* * * * *

Trapped in his sick bed, Carlyle was kept quite successfully in the dark about his companion's schemes. Not that Sharpe deliberately made a mystery out of his actions, but he couldn't know that Carlyle was used to assessing everything; adept at reading messages even where none had been written. Carlyle knew over the next few days that Richard was up to something, though quite what he was unsure. Sharpe cared for him attentively, brought books from the library, food from Ned, and generally cared for his every need. That every now and then he would just disappear for hours in the day, not once saying where he had been, or making any effort to explain, Sharpe didn't think about at all. He never knew the effect his absence was having on the man tied so unwillingly to his sick–bed.

Unsure of his boundaries, Carlyle never asked outright where Sharpe went. If he had done so, he would half have expected to hear in answer that Sharpe was bored, or even planning to leave. He saw only what he expected, ignoring completely the contentment that filled the other man in a way that only a blind man, or one overly concerned with the matter, could miss. All of which made him very impatient with the healing wound in his side. If he had been well, there would have been no possibility of boredom for either of them. Of that he was certain. He could remember what Richard had been like in bed, how he had responded, what he tasted of.

That Carlyle could feel the beginnings of lust while the other man lay at his side, he considered wonderful. That he was too weak to even begin acting on such itchings irritated immensely, making him short with his companion and accidentally further deepening what he saw as a rift opening between them. Since that day when they had come as close as they ever had, he seemed to see less and less of Sharpe, who, when he was around, seemed to want to sleep early and rise with the dawn, his thoughts and usually his body clearly elsewhere. Carlyle of course saw this as cause and effect, and cursed himself for having spoken of things that bordered on intimacy so soon. That Sharpe desired him he had no doubt. That he felt anything else...well, that was a different matter entirely.

On the sixth day after the duel, the third of incarceration, pursued by demons of doubt, Carlyle finally made it out of bed, to rise and dress without assistance. His side was healing well, the weakness caused by loss of blood far more debilitating than any remnant of pain. Though, once in trousers and shirt, still barefoot, he stood by the bed and wondered after all, if this was a good idea. Determination alone had him reaching for a jacket, cursing himself for having grown soft. He was stranded half across the room, heading for the press, when the door opened.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Guilt making him short tempered, Carlyle snapped. "Getting dressed, what do you think?"

"Making yourself ill again." Sharpe closed the door, wiped his sleeve across his face, and stood hand impatiently on hip. "Have you taken leave of what few senses I left you? You need to rest?"

"I need to get out of this room."

"And do what?"

Carlyle drew his lips into a thin line, then turned away, back unnaturally stiff.

Sharpe was in front of him, anger tightening the muscles of his face. For some reason there was a piece of ivy tangled in his hair, and as Carlyle watched, a spider ran down his collar. Curiosity took away all irrational temper. "What have you been doing?" He reached out and picked the spider off the thick wool tail–coat, his own, tossing it to one side before reaching up and gently tugging the leaf free.

"All sorts, and don't change the subject."

Carlyle looked into Sharpe's eyes and knew all his doubts were false. The concern there was all too real, quite how he could ever have doubted it he wasn't sure. Not that genuine concern for his welfare would mean that, without inducements, Sharpe would stay any longer than he had to, of course. "I'm sorry. But I am growing very weary of these four walls."

Sharpe inspected him keenly, but saw nothing to contradict the words. "You should wait until the stitches are out."

"Rubbish? I would wager you fought battles in a worse state than this?"

"That was different."

"Indeed?"

"Ay, it was." Sharpe nodded his head once, impatiently.

Carlyle considered battles, and knew beyond doubt that this particular one was going to be the most important of his life. He smiled crookedly at the thought, wondering what the other man would say if he spoke his feelings. Discretion proved the better part of valour. "Let me take a walk, stretch my legs. I really am very tired of being here."

The plaintive note broke any steadfastness Sharpe might have summoned. "Half an hour, no more."

"Wonderful."

Carlyle's smile was enough. "Well, we'd better get you dressed properly, then." Sharpe nodded at the bed. "Go and sit down while I sort something out."

"My pleasure."

"Well, as I'm wearing mostly your clothes, at least I know where everything is?" In fact, apart from his boots, all Sharpe wore came on loan. It all fitted well enough, when adapted with judicious belting and folding back of cuffs. He was roughly the same height as Carlyle, an inch shorter perhaps, but slighter, even when fully fit.

"I knew there was a good reason for giving you full rein at my belongings."

"I should think you usually have a good reason for the things you do, eh?" Sharpe looked quickly back over his shoulder, watching as Carlyle sat himself down.

"Not always deliberate." He closed his eyes, content now that his whim was being indulged.

"Really?"

Carlyle merely imitated the sphinx.

"Come on." Sharpe walked back carrying an armful of clothing, tossing it down on the bed. Then with a martyred sigh he knelt. "Give us your feet..." He dressed Carlyle warmly, socks and short boots on his feet, waistcoat and thick wool jacket over the fine shirt. When he was ready they both stood, Sharpe suddenly hesitant.

"What's the matter?"

He made a face. "I've made a few changes...I just thought I should warn you."

"Changes?"

"Ay, you'll see."

"Mysteries, indeed."

"Not very exciting ones." Sharpe opened the door, and let Carlyle precede him out the room.

It was immediately colder away from the fire. Carlyle was glad of all the layers of clothes as he walked slowly down to the long gallery. Everything there was as he remembered, apart from a great gouge out of one panel. Dimly he could recall firing his weapon into the air. His shot must have caused the damage. There was also a dark stain on the floor, something he politely pretended not to notice.

The gallery was as shadowed as it ever was, but as they came to the staircase, Carlyle stopped in his tracks, then accusingly looked around at Sharpe, commenting dryly, "You have been busy."

"I got fed up with tripping over my own feet because I couldn't see half a yard in front of my eyes. Do you mind?"

Carlyle lent on the carved end of the bannister rail and shook his head. "No, how could I?"

"I thought maybe you liked the dark."

The high windows above, and to the right and left, of the main doors were clear of ivy, light flooding through to illuminate every corner of the great hall. A hall, he realised, that showed no sign of dust or dirt or accumulated years of rubbish. "No, I just couldn't be bothered to do anything about it."

"Good." Sharpe grinned, clearly relieved that the first hurdle had been taken so easily.

Carlyle began to walk slowly down the stairs, one hand loosely about his waist, the other on the bannister. "Did you do all this on your own?"

"No, Ned helped with the ivy — bloody tenacious stuff, that is. And..."

A capable looking woman, well into middle–age, dressed in clean, but very faded brown work–clothes, appeared out of the kitchen doorway. "Mister Sharpe?" Then she saw who accompanied her employer, and her pleasure was unmistakeable. "Your Lordship?" She dipped into a light curtsey then picking up her skirts, ran up the steps to assist. "How are you, sir?"

"I'm fine, Annie, just fine." Carlyle cast an accusing look at Sharpe, who was somehow looking extremely innocent. "Well, Annie Maxted, am I to thank you for the wonderful change in the state of my hallway?"

"Ay." Sharpe answered for her. "And the parlour, and the dining room, and the kitchens. Annie and her friends have done marvels." He smiled at her. "Isn't that so?"

"Nonsense? You've worked just as hard, Mister Sharpe." Unsure about how she could help a man walking slowly, but easily, she ended up at their side, her maternal gaze assessing Carlyle in a way that made him quite uncomfortable. "He has, your Lordship." Curiosity danced behind her eyes. "Are you well now? Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine. Richard has been an admirable physician."

"Oh, Mister Sharpe was quite concerned that we kept away from your part of the hous