His mouth twitched, but Daniel did not take up the challenge.

She said, “I think it must be today, Daniel. The bullet.”

Wherever his thoughts had been, he turned his attention back to her.

“I thought you said it would work its way out.”

“I hoped that it would,” she said. “But the infection is worse, and I can't take the chance of leaving it any longer.”

“Today?”

She paused. “Yes. As soon as Jennet is here.”

His gaze flickered toward her and along with it came a faint smile. “You've sent her to see Caudebec.”

“I would not put it like that,” Hannah said. “Jennet can no more be sent on an errand than a cat. She decided what must be done, and she is doing it. I only hope she hasn't lost her touch.”

That made Daniel laugh, at least. A low, deep chuckle that turned into a shallow cough. Hannah did not like the sound of it, but she was a healer before she was a sister, and she kept the full force of her alarm hidden away.

Jennet had only seen Colonel Caudebec from afar once or twice: a man of medium height and build, with nothing out of the ordinary to recommend him except that it was within his power to make the prisoners miserable. Stepping into his quarters, she learned something else: the colonel was a man who appreciated art and beautiful things and the comforts of civilization, and not even war was enough to make him give such things up.

He had taken over the entire upper level of one of the blockhouses for his office and quarters, and filled it with fine things: china and glass and a beautiful India rug. A servant asked her for her muddy boots before she had come more than two steps into the room, and then made them disappear where they would do no damage. A large crucifix dominated one wall, and in a corner was a statue of the Virgin, cast in bronze. Next to that was an ornate chair, carved and cushioned with red velvet, and in the chair sat the tallest priest she had ever seen. Even without an introduction she would have known him from the stories the soldiers told.

The colonel almost simpered, so proud was he of his visitor. “Father O'Neill, may I present Mrs. Huntar, who works among our prisoners.”

He unfolded himself from the chair, a man six and a half feet tall, with a head of black hair going gray at the widow's peak and sharp blue eyes and a smile that spoke more of the ways of the world than those of heaven.

“Mrs. Huntar,” he said, not quite meeting her eye. “Please, sit. I have questions for you.”

“Questions,” she echoed, and wondered if she looked as dim as she sounded.

“About your work here. You must be a very unusual and courageous lady indeed.”

“Ah,” said Jennet. “Weel.”

He was examining her face closely. “Not many have the fortitude or courage to take up missionary work, especially not in time of war.”

Jennet's first assessment of the priest was shifting rapidly. In part because she couldn't place his accent—it was not Irish, not English, not American, but some odd combination of all those with a strong undercurrent of French. Beyond that first and distracting question, there was a crumble of bread at the corner of his mouth, tucked into a crease. And whoever had shaved the priest this morning had been distracted enough to leave a patch of bristle in the thumb-sized indentation under his lower lip. Jennet simply could not look away, though she knew that she must.

If the priest minded he was good at hiding his discomfort. He went on making observations and assumptions and drawing the most incredible conclusions without any encouragement. One part of Jennet's mind wondered where he might end up if he went on like this.

“—known to me.”

She blinked. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm a wee muddleheided the morn.”

And now Scots. It had the habit of pouring out of her at the oddest moments.

“You are a widow, as I understand it? I was asking what brought you to this part of the world.”

Jennet had always been particularly good at making up stories on the spot, and she had polished and refined the gift over the years. A gift that might fail her now; she felt herself blanching.

“I meant to cause you no distress,” the priest said. He put a hand on her wrist where it rested on the arm of the chair, and Jennet started at that: the heat of him, and his closeness, and something else she could hardly name.

She remembered then why she was making this visit, and the men in the stockade, whose well-being depended on what she could accomplish here.

Jennet withdrew her hand. “I am a widow woman, aye. My husband was a vicar, ye see. We were on our way here as missionaries when he took ill. He wanted me to carry on without him, and so I try, poor woman that I am.”

The priest's blue eyes considered her, calculating openly, adding things together and taking others away. Jennet had the strangest sense that she had met the man before, and realized then that he reminded her of her own father: someone with the gift of seeing the truth no matter how well hidden it might be, and using it to his own advantage.

She must rise to that challenge, for her own sake and for the sake of the men who were counting on her.

He said, “Would you object, then, to my visiting the Catholic prisoners?”

She didn't like the idea at all, of course, but Jennet could do nothing but smile and assure him that his company would be welcome.

“I would like to have the chance to talk to you a bit about my mission,” said the priest. “I think my work will interest you. I have a sister who took orders with Grey Nuns in Montreal. You remind me of her.”