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The old dame had bound up the gash, given the child a drink of rose-hip syrup and a piece of lardy cake, and sent her on her way, promising to care for the rabbit.

The rabbit had gone in the pot that night, and the dame had lived off it for a week, but when the child returned, she told her that it had hopped off on its three legs, perfectly able to survive in the wild.

Since then Theo had visited regularly, always bringing something with her, even if it was only half a loaf from the breakfast table. Once she'd grown into adulthood, the gifts had been more substantial and always carefully chosen. Meat and cheese were in short supply on the old herbalist's table.

"So what can us do for ye, girlie?" The dame knew this was no purely social visit. There was a tension in the slender frame that told its own story.

"You've ways of preventing a woman conceiving a child," Theo said directly, leaning against the rickery table.

"Aye, and ways of stopping a birth, if that's what ye need." The dame heaved herself to her feet. "A sup of elderberry wine, m'dear?" She took a bottle from a shelf beside the hearth, unstoppered it, and poured a generous measure into a tin cup.

"My thanks, dame." Theo took the welcoming cup and drank, handing it back to her hostess, who refilled it and drank for herself.

"So which is it ye want, girlie?" The old herbalist turned back to her shelves.

"I've no desire to conceive as yet," Theo said.

"That's easily seen to." A wrinkled claw scrabbled among the bottles and pouches on the shelf. "This'll do it for ye."

She pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the contents, her nose wrinkling like a pig's searching out truffles.

"A lover, 'ave ye, girlie?"

"No," Theo said. "Not precisely. But a husband in a few weeks."

"Ah." The dame nodded. "Best to look after the lovin' before ye starts breedin', m'dear. If ye don't get it right afore, it'll never come right after, mark my words."

"That's rather what I thought," Theo said. "How should I take this?"

She received precise instructions and was on her way five minutes later. When the time came to give the Gilbraith an heir, it would be of her own choosing.

Sylvester entered the drawing room before dinner that evening with a smile in his eyes. He was feeling immensely pleased with himself, and his smile broadened when he saw that Theo had made an effort with her appearance and was wearing a relatively fashionable gown of dark-blue silk that matched her eyes, and her hair, instead of hanging down her back in its uncompromising rope, was looped in two braids over her ears, the fringe a soft wisp on her broad forehead.

"Ma'am." He bowed to Lady Belmont. "Cousins. I trust you spent a pleasant day."

"Not really," Rosie said. "I lost a dragonfly that I was trying to catch and tore my net on a tree branch."

"I'm sorry to hear it, Rosie," he said. The child was not usually in evidence in the evening, but since she was dressed in a crisp muslin gown with a broad sash, her hair demurely confined in a velvet ribbon, and her hands and face seemed unusually clean, he assumed she was to join them at the dinner table.

"It's very exasperating," Rosie said, sipping lemonade. "What did you do today?"

"Ah, well, I did some interesting shopping." He drew from his pocket a small square box.

"Cousin." He approached Theo, taking her left hand in his. "Permit me."

Theo stared at her finger, at the delicate circle of diamonds and seed pearls slipping over it. It was exquisitely simple. The man who had chosen it for her must know more about her tastes than she'd given him credit for.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. There was a question in the earl's, a touch of hesitancy. He wanted her to be pleased with his choice.

"It's lovely," she said, and his smile crinkled the skin around his eyes.

Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers, and then, when she looked completely astonished at such a reverent salute, he kissed the tip of her nose.

"The banns will be read for the next three Sundays, gypsy; and we'll be married the following Monday."

Chapter Nine

The Spanish sun was a brass-taloned eagle clawing at the baked earth of the Zaragoza desert. Edward Fairfax wiped his brow with a grimy handkerchief as he ducked into the welcome dimness of the stone house that served as battalion headquarters.

"It's hot as Hades out there," he observed redundantly to the men sprawling, scarlet tunics and collars open, on the various chairs and benches furnishing the building's single room. "The pickets are liable to get heat stroke, poor buggers."

"Change 'em every two hours, lieutenant," a gravelly voice spoke from the darkest corner of the room.

"Yes, sir." Edward nodded in the direction of his colonel as he loosened his tunic and unfastened his collar before lifting a copper jug to his lips. The clear, cold stream of water coated his parched throat, washing away the desert dust on his tongue.

"Mail cart came in earlier," a bearded man said, indolently gesturing toward the table where a pile of letters and newspapers lay. His hand dropped again into his lap as if the simple movement in the heat had exhausted him.

Edward riffled through the pile, extracting a letter from his mother. He'd been hoping for one from Emily, or better still, one from Theo. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his betrothed's letters – they were warm and sweet and loving; but Theo's were full of the kind of information that he hungered for, about the land and the people they both knew, and they were always funny. She seemed to know that humor was in short supply in Wellington's Army of the Peninsular, sweltering through yet another Spanish summer.

His mother's letter, however, contained startling information. "Good God," he said.

"Not bad news, I trust?"

"I don't know what you'd call it." He frowned, rereading the relevant paragraph. "My fiancee's younger sister has just become betrothed to the new Earl of Stoneridge. Somewhat suddenly, as far as I can gather."

"Stoneridge?" A burly captain stood up, buttoning his tunic.

"Didn't Gilbraith come into that title?" He tightened his belt buckle.

"Sylvester Gilbraith… wasn't he the center of that scandal at Vimiera?" the colonel inquired.

"What was that, sir?" Edward looked attentively toward his superior.

The colonel frowned. "Damn murky business. Gilbraith lost the colors. He was badly wounded and apparently surrendered. Spent a year in a Froggie jail until he was exchanged. Court-martial acquitted him of cowardice, but it was damn murky, nevertheless. He resigned his commission. They say if the Peer hadn't stood up for him, he'd have faced a firing squad. But Wellington would have it that he knew the man and he was no coward, however it looked."

"And how did it look, sir?" asked Edward.

The colonel stretched an arm for the water jug, taking a gulp. "Murky… damn murky. Reinforcements were on the way, and he knew it, but they say he surrendered without a whimper."

Edward frowned. "But if he was wounded…?"

The colonel shook his head. "Seems he yielded the colors and surrendered before he was wounded. Some bloody Froggie bayoneted him for the fun of it. By the time the reinforcements came up, it was all over."

"What about the men of his company?"

"Those who survived said the French were advancing for the umpteenth time, and he ordered them to surrender without firing a shot. Shocking business."

"Yes," agreed Edward. He wandered outside into the inferno of the summer afternoon. Theo couldn't marry a coward – it was unthinkable. Presumably she didn't know the story, and probably it was best if she never heard it. She'd be as miserable as sin with a man she couldn't respect. And why was she marrying Stoneridge, anyway? A hated Gilbraith. But he thought he could guess the answer to that. It would be the only way she could remain in control of her beloved home. Theo, despite her volatile nature, was ever pragmatic when it came to the estate.