And heard another voice, just as familiar.

She stopped and looked around herself, for the first time. The parade ground was teeming with troops at drill and there was a new ship at the docks, flying Royal Navy colors. That in itself was nothing unusual; ships came and went so often with men and supplies that Hannah had long ago stopped paying attention.

But this particular ship had brought out Colonel Caudebec, pale of complexion and red eyed, to greet its passengers, his junior officers in tow.

At first her mind would make no sense of what she was seeing. The midday sun danced on polished swords, gold buttons, buckles and chains; she narrowed her eyes and forced herself to look, and still there they were, walking toward her.

Three of the visitors were in uniform, but it was the last man who had all of Hannah's—and Colonel Caudebec's attention.

Luke had his head inclined slightly toward Father O'Neill, who was speaking to him with great seriousness. The two men, almost of equal height, were an oddly impressive sight, one sun-blond, the other black haired, both long of bone and strongly built, one in his prime and the other, the priest, still vital in the way of hardworking men who strode into their fifties without slowing.

“. . . the quartermaster next week,” the priest finished, just as the men passed Hannah, who stood, unable to move, unable to look away, as she should. As she must.

“Yes, well, current events dictated otherwise,” Luke said in a voice and tone that Hannah had never heard from him before. More English than Canadian or Scots, all authority. A man who expected deference from army officers and got it without question. If he saw Hannah he gave no indication, nor did any of the others.

“That's so,” said another officer. He was a soft man with a puddinglike gut that strained his uniform jacket. A paymaster or quartermaster, one of the men who feed paper into the maw of war.

Then they were gone.

“Major Watson of the Forty-ninth Fencibles,” said a voice behind her, in the singsong accents of the French Canadians. “And Captain Le Couteur of the Chasseurs.”

Hannah put a hand to her throat as if she could quiet the mad flutter of her pulse. With some effort she composed her face before she turned.

One of the voltigeurs who were such friends of Jennet's stood there, his gaze still fixed on the retreating backs of the officers.

“Don't know the others by name,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I hope they've brought the coin with them. It's two months we've been without pay.”

“The man out of uniform?” Hannah asked. “What is he doing here?”

The voltigeur worked his shoulders. “A merchant by the name Luke Bonner, head of Forbes and Sons. Surely you've heard of them, they own half Montreal. Met his sister a few months back, a pretty little thing.”

If he knew more, he was hiding it well. Nor did he take any real note of Hannah's lack of reply; his tongue was loosed and he seemed eager to talk.

“No doubt he's bringing the colonel some more pretties. A man overfond of paintings and fine dishes and such is the colonel. It's bred into them, you know.”

His mouth twisted and twitched as if the idea caused him physical pain.

“Bred into who?” Hannah asked, distracted.

“Why, the Papists. French or Irish or Roman, they've all got a weakness for glittery things. Like crows.” He looked more closely at her. “You aren't one of them, are you? Has Caudebec's fighting priest won you over?”

“No,” Hannah said. “I've never even had a conversation with him.” That was true. She always managed to be busy elsewhere when he came into the stockade to say mass for the Catholic French Vermonters.

“He thinks he's got Mrs. Huntar in his net, he does. A sly one, is Father O'Neill.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “And a wild man on a battlefield.”

Hannah was having some trouble paying attention, but the next turn in the conversation brought her back quickly.

“That ship is crawling with marines,” the voltigeur said thoughtfully. He squinted, his eyes moving over masts and deck. “It must be true that they'll be taking the prisoners with them when they go. Will Mrs. Huntar be going with them?”

There it was, then, the reason he had stopped her. She met his gaze and he lowered his eyes, a flush crawling up from the linen at his throat.

“You will have to ask her that, Mr.—”

“MacLeod,” he said, bowing from the shoulders. “Lieutenant Kester MacLeod. Will you give her my regards?”

Hannah said, “Yes, I will do that.” She turned in the direction she had come.

“I thought you were on your way to the hospital?” he called after her.

Hannah pretended she didn't hear the question, and broke into a trot.

Jennet had always liked to think of herself as a woman who rose to the occasion, one who would have fought alongside her forefathers at Stirling and Bannockburn, Falkirk and Holyrood. But here was a simple and unpleasant truth that she must confront: she was as nervous as a cat in this stockade of angry and agitated men. The prisoners needed calm and fortitude, but what Jennet most wanted and needed to do was scream and run away.

Luke was with the colonel, and what did that mean? The same question she had asked herself a hundred times and still no answer came to her.

“Will you go with us, Mrs. Huntar?” asked one of the younger boys. His splinted leg was the only thing that kept him from following her around the stockade like a puppy, even on the best of days. Today, after the guards had herded all the prisoners into the exercise yard to hear Colonel Caudebec tell them that they were to be transported, she could not turn around without bumping into him.