Chapter Three

      Wounded men moaned on every side of him. He struggled to sit up and fell from weakness. His hands sank into the mire, catching his weight. Sophie’s lock of hair still clung to his right palm. Brookes tried to pray but his brain refused to form any words. God wouldn’t save him. No one else would, either, unless he made it through the night. Wellington himself ordered that no man be carried off the field until daybreak.

       A bark of laughter filled the air. Brookes raised his head enough to see. Two soldiers—Prussians, by their uniforms—looted the dead and finished off the dying. “Kurpi! Kurpi!” whispered one urgently, while the other removed the dead soldier’s boot. “Ja! Ja!” He held up a miniature portrait in triumph, flipped it in the air like a coin, and then stuffed it in his pocket.

       They moved through the corpses, picking them clean like vultures after carrion, stabbing through the wounded with expert precision, then looting them as well. By the sound of their voices, they were less than two yards away. It was only a matter of time until they found him—

       Brookes jerked to awareness, bathed in cold sweat. Had he screamed out loud? He grasped around under the settee until he found what he sought. There it was—the decanter of brandy and an empty glass. He poured a tall measure with shaking hands. He was grateful that Stoames agreed to return to Brookes Hall with him after the war. Stoames was the one who set up his sofa so Brookes could sleep sitting bolt upright near the fire, and thoughtfully placed the brandy decanter within close range. Good man. He deserved a raise in pay.

       On cue, his batman emerged from Brookes’s dressing room, where he slept on a cot. “Everything all right, Captain? Thought I heard something.”

       “I was pouring myself a drink. Care to join me?”

       “Don’t mind if I do.” He ducked back into the dressing room and brought out his shaving mug. “A short one.” He politely held out the cup.

       They drank in silence for a moment.

       “Dream?” Stoames asked shortly.

       “Yes. Same one. The looters. Before you found me, and stopped them.”

       They drank again, staring at the fire.

       Stoames sighed. “Let’s talk of something else. Your visit to Miss Sophie—how did you fare? Is she as beautiful as ever?”

       Brookes hesitated. He refused to think about Sophie since returning from his disastrous visit to Tansley Cottage. But now, prompted by Stoames’s question, he tried to wrap his mind around her reaction. Among other soldiers, his wooden leg wasn’t even worthy of comment—a sharp contrast to the blank expression of horror in Sophie’s eyes. For the first time it dawned on him that a young and pretty woman might find him unattractive, repulsive even. “She is lovely as ever, but I think she found me sorely altered.”

       “Surely she expected some change in you. After all, you went to war.”

       “I don’t think many people can comprehend what happened, unless they were there.” Brookes swirled the brandy around in his glass. If he wanted to capture Sophie’s attention again, he needed to prove the changes the war wrought were merely superficial. That meant proving himself as lively and charismatic as he had been before he left for the peninsula—but was he? Pondering this, his thoughts drifted to Harriet, and he surprised himself by adding, “Her sister was looking well.” Not that it mattered, of course. Only Sophie’s opinion of him counted, since she would be his wife some day.

       “Miss Harriet?” The edge of Stoames’s voice was sharp as a saber’s edge.

       “Yes. She seemed…” He paused for a moment, searching for the elusive words. “She took the changes in stride.”

       “Ah, well,” replied Stoames. “I’ve only seen the two lasses on occasion, but from what I recall, Miss Harriet was a steady girl. Quiet like. Not like Miss Sophie at all.”

       “No.” Brookes stared into his brandy. “Not like Miss Sophie at all.”

       Sophie and Harriet put their plan in action the next day, in the event that the captain called later in the afternoon. After luncheon, Sophie hitched the family’s one faithful nag, Esther, to the gig and drove off to call on Mary in Riber. As the gig beat a squeaky retreat, Harriet took her few remaining books outside, to read until the captain came to call. One had to take advantage of the brief break in the rain for a bit of fresh air.

       Harriet’s mouth went dry as she watched Captain Brookes approach. With shaking hands, she picked up a book from the stack at her feet. She forced herself to gaze at the pages, even though the words blurred into a single black line. When it was polite to look up, she saw the captain dismounting with care, and striding toward her.

       “Captain Brookes, so happy to see you again.”

       “Miss Handley.” He bowed over her extended hand.

       “You find me alone this afternoon, Captain. Sophie is in Riber, and my mother is resting.”

       “I don’t wish to intrude upon your solitude,” he replied stiffly, waving a hand at her stack of books.

       “Oh, no, Captain, join me. It’s a pleasure to have conversation. Mama says I read far too many books.”

       “So I see.” He stooped and picked up a volume. “Homer? You read the classics?”

       She smiled. “I read anything I can get my hands on. These are a few I managed to salvage from Papa’s library…before we lost it all.”

       He looked at her sharply. “I have a library at Brookes Park. Not grand like your father’s, but you are welcome to it.”

       Harriet leaped out of her chair. “Can we go right now?”

       For the first time since his return, Harriet saw Captain Brookes smile. It changed his whole expression, causing a tingle of awareness to flash through her being. Then she grinned in entreaty. “Please, Captain?”

       “Of course. Get your horse and we will ride over together.”

       “Oh!” Harriet’s excitement deflated. “Sophie took our horse to Riber. We only have the one.”