Judging by the mingled groans and labored breathing, the earthen floor must be covered almost elbow to elbow with wounded men. The scorching Spanish noonday heat had been replaced by the bitter cold of night. There was a scratchy blanket over his bandaged torso, but he didn't need it, for he was burning with the fever of infection, and a thirst worse than the pain.
He thought of his home in Wales, and wondered if he would ever see the lush green hills again. Probably not; a surgeon had once told him only one man in three survived a serious wound.
There was a certain peace in the prospect of dying. Not only would it bring surcease from pain, but he had, after all, come to Spain with the bitter knowledge that death would free him from an impossible dilemma. He had wanted to forget both Caroline, the woman he had loved more than honor, and the terrible promise he had made, never thinking he might be called upon to fulfill it.
With vague curiosity, he wondered who would miss him. His army friends, of course, but they were used to such losses. Within a day, he would have become "poor old Kenyon," simply one more of the fallen. No one in his family would be sorry, unless from irritation at having to put aside their finery to wear mourning black. His father, the Duke of Ashburton, would utter a few pious platitudes about God's will, but he would be secretly pleased to be free of his despised younger son.
If anyone would feel real grief at his passing, it would be his oldest friends, Lucien and Rafe. And there was Nicholas, of course, but he could not bear to think of Nicholas.
His bleak thoughts were interrupted by a woman's voice, as cool and clear as a Welsh mountain spring. Strange to hear an English lady in such a place. She must be one of the intrepid officers' wives who chose to "follow the drum," accompanying their men through all the hardships and danger of campaign life.
Softly she asked him, "Would you like water?"
Unable to speak, he nodded assent. A firm arm raised his head so he could drink. She had the fresh thyme and lavender scent of the Spanish hills, discernible even through the stench of injury and death. The light was too dim to see her face, but his head was resting against a warm curve. If he could move, he would bury his face against her blessedly soft female body. Then he would be able to die in peace.
His throat was too dry to swallow, and water spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin. She said matter-of-factly, "Sorry, I shouldn't have given you so much. Let's try again."
She tilted her vessel so that only a few drops trickled between his cracked lips. He managed to swallow enough to ease the burning in his throat. Patiently she gave him more, a little at a time, until the excruciating thirst was gone.
Able to speak again, he whispered, "Thank you, madame. I'm… most grateful."
"You're very welcome." She lowered him to the straw, then rose and went to^the neighboring pallet. After a moment, she said sorrowfully, "Vaya con Dios." Go with God. It was a Spanish farewell, even more appropriate for the dead than the living.
After she moved away, Michael dozed again. He was vaguely aware when orderlies came and removed the body on the next pallet. Soon after, another casualty was laid in the space.
The new arrival was delirious, mumbling over and over, "Mam, Mam, where are you?" His voice revealed that he was very young and terribly afraid.
Michael tried to block out the wrenching pleas. He was unsuccessful, but the steadily weakening words showed that the boy was unlikely to last much longer. Poor devil.
Another voice sounded from the foot of Michael's pallet. It was the Scottish surgeon saying, "Bring Mrs. Melbourne."
"You sent her home yourself, Dr. Kinlock," an orderly said doubtfully. "She was fair done up."
"She'll not forgive us if she learns that boy died like this. Go get her."
An indefinable time later, Michael heard the soft, distinctively feminine rustle of petticoats. He opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a woman picking her way through the barn. Beside her was the doctor, carrying a lantern.
"His name is Jem," the surgeon said in a low voice. "He's from somewhere in East Anglia. Suffolk, I think. The poor lad is gutshot and won't last much longer."
The woman nodded. Though Michael's vision was still blurred, he thought she had the dark hair and oval face of a Spaniard. Yet her voice was that of the lady who had brought water. "Jem, lad, is that you?"
The boy's monotonous calling for his mother stopped. With a quaver of desperate relief, he said, "Oh, Mam, Mam, I'm so glad you're here."
"I'm sorry it took so long, Jemmie." She knelt beside the boy's pallet, then bent and kissed his cheek.
"I knew you'd come." Jem reached clumsily for her hand. "I'm not afraid now that you're here. Please… stay with me."
She took his hand in hers. "Don't worry, lad. I won't leave you alone."
The surgeon hung the lantern from a nail above the boy's pallet, then withdrew. The woman-Mrs. Melbourne-sat in the straw against the wall and drew Jem's head onto her lap. He gave a deep sigh of contentment when she stroked his hair. She began to sing a gentle lullaby. Her voice never faltered, though tears glinted on her cheeks as Jem's life slowly ebbed away.
Michael closed his eyes, feeling better than before. Mrs. Melbourne's warmth and generous spirit were a reminder of all that was good and true. As long as earthly angels like her existed, life might be worth living.
He drifted into sleep, her soft voice warming him like a candle defying the darkness.
The sun was inching above the horizon when Jem drew his last, labored breath, then became still. Catherine laid him back in the straw with a grief beyond tears. He was so young.
Her cramped legs almost failed when she got to her feet. As she leaned against the rough stone wall and waited for her muscles to recover, she glanced at the man on her left. His blanket had slipped, exposing the stained bandages swathing his broad chest.
The air was still chilly, so she leaned down and drew the blanket up to his shoulders again. Then she laid her hand on his forehead. To her surprise, the fever had broken. When she had given him water, she would not have given a ha'penny for his chances. But he was a tall, powerful-looking fellow; perhaps he had the strength to survive his wounds. She hoped so.
Wearily she made her way toward the door. During her years following the drum, she had learned a great deal about nursing and more than a little surgery, but she had never become inured to the sight of suffering.
The austere landscape was peaceful after the deafening clamor of the day before. By the time she reached her tent, much of her tension was gone. Her husband, Colin, had not yet returned from duty, but her groom, Bates, was sleeping outside, guarding the captain's womenfolk.
Tired to the bone, she ducked inside the tent. Amy's dark head popped up from her blankets. With the nonchalance of an old campaigner, she asked, "Is it time to march, Mama?"
"No, poppet." Catherine kissed her daughter's forehead. After the horrors of the field hospital, it was heaven to hug the child's healthy young body. "I expect we'll stay here today. There's always much to be done after a battle."
Amy regarded her sternly. "You need to sleep. Turn around so I can untie your gown."
Catherine smiled as she obeyed. Her qualms about taking her daughter on campaign were countered by the knowledge that the life had produced this miracle of a child: resilient, wise, and capable far beyond her years.
Before Amy could undo the stained gown, hoofbeats sounded outside, followed by the jingle of harness and the staccato sound of her husband's voice. A moment later, Colin barreled into the tent. He had a cavalry officer's energetic personality, and one was always aware when he was in the vicinity.