Luke would not rise to such bait, but the priest was another matter. Until this moment he had added nothing to the conversation, but now he said, “It is true that the faithful suffer great deprivations in Scotland. But in this country Mrs. Huntar need never worry about such things.”

“Either you are exceedingly positive in your outlook,” Major Wyndham said shortly, “or exceedingly naïve. There is no love lost between the two faiths in Canada.”

It was something Luke might have said, had he not been keeping his own counsel. Jennet could feel his attention focusing on the priest who had concerned him for so many weeks, and she might have screamed in frustration: men would play their silly games when there were more important things to be said and done.

“What do you think of the Paxareti?” She turned to Lieutenant Hughes, who started at the abrupt and unexpected address from the solitary lady at the table.

“Damned fine,” said the younger man, who had taken so much of the wine that his words slurred and his language suffered. “Now that they've shipped Boney off to Elba it should be easier to get more of it, I hope.”

Wyndham snorted. “Hughes, you talk about the Peninsular War as if it were all a plot to deprive your table and inconvenience you. Let me remind you that good men died by the thousands while you sat in Québec with a lady on each knee.”

Lieutenant Hughes let out a barking laugh and made no effort to defend himself against these charges.

“You were there, I take it, Major Wyndham?” asked Major de la Bruére.

“From Talavera to Salamanca,” interjected Colonel Caudebec. “Ask him anything except how he ended up over here, eh, Kit?”

Jennet breathed a sigh of relief as the discussion turned to Bonaparte's war, a topic that had the military men's full attention, and Luke's too, if his expression was to be believed. She settled more comfortably into her chair and was wondering how she was ever to have a private word with him when Major de la Bruére leaned toward her.

He whispered, “Are you as bored as I am with the endless stories of Bonaparte?”

His hand crept into her lap, warmly pulsing, slightly damp; pelted like a rat. Jennet caught her breath, closed her eyes, picked up the unwelcome hand as gingerly as she would a soiled handkerchief, and moved it away.

The hand came creeping back, as Jennet had feared that it would.

“Perhaps you might be willing to show me around the garrison after supper?” crooned the little major. “Your lodgings are in the followers' camp, is that correct?”

For all of her girlhood, Jennet had listened to her mother's warnings about her temper. Remember Isabel. Those words came to her now, and with it the memory of her beloved half sister, who had struck out in anger and paid for it with her life.

The major's thick fingers wrapped themselves in the thin fabric of Jennet's skirt, and try as she might she could not call Isabel's face into her memory. She picked up her knife and sliced neatly into the soft web of flesh between thumb and first finger.

The major pulled away from the table, his chair catching on the Turkey rug and tipping suddenly back, wobbling for a moment before it deposited him with a thump on the floor. His bellow, Jennet noted with grim satisfaction, was like that of a calf being castrated.

“Oh, dear,” Jennet said in her most refined tone. “What a great deal of blood.”

There was a stunned silence that erupted into movement. Half the officers were hiding smiles, or trying to, while the others scrambled to help the man to his feet. A tray of glasses was dropped and a cadet tripped and fell into the jumble of men. When he was finally pulled to his feet, de la Bruére stood, pale and trembling, a napkin clutched in his bleeding hand.

“Mrs. Huntar!”

“Yes?” she asked, working very hard to put just the right confusion into her tone. And then: “Did you want me to look at it, sir? I think perhaps you should call one of the surgeons, Colonel, it looks as though the major might require stitches.”

De la Bruére's mouth twitched, and for a moment Jennet thought that he would accuse her openly. What would happen then, if the colonel would be amused or affronted, that she could not predict. Nor did she particularly care, at this moment. Suddenly she was weary beyond memory, and simply uncaring of what was to come next.

Then Luke's hand settled on hers under the table. The long fingers wound into hers and squeezed, gently. Jennet drew in a deep breath and held it while Luke pressed something small and hard into the palm of her hand.

“A surgeon, by all means,” said the colonel. “But do come back when your hand is bound. The cook has prepared a special treat. But only if you are feeling up to it, of course.”

Beside her Luke grunted softly, and Jennet looked up to see something truly surprising. Colonel Caudebec: he was staring at de la Bruére with a cool, knowing, and dismissive smile.

Jennet excused herself as soon as it was viable, babbling thanks, unable to concentrate on anything beyond the small rectangle of paper she had tucked into her bodice. At the bottom of the stair she paused in the smoky light of a lantern and listened, but all she heard was the murmuring of the guards who stood in front of the blockhouse, the wind, and the rocking of the boats crowding the river. Her fingers trembled so that she lost her grasp on the paper. Even as she snatched at it, the breeze sent it tumbling into the darkness.

She swore to herself and followed, her gaze fixed on the small rumpled square of light in the shadows. She had just managed to put her foot down on it when she heard steps behind her.