Like blood seeping through bandages, he thought, and that image made him close his eyes. He still woke in the nights, shuddering with memories of blood and battles, but he consoled himself that it was all behind him now. He had Lucille, he had a son and, given time, he might even find happiness in this land of his erstwhile enemies. A rabbit thumped in warning, Nosey growled softly and Sharpe opened his eyes, slid the gun forward and waited.

LUCILLE fed Patrick his breakfast. "Almost two years old! " She told the child, tickling under his chin. "Big for his age" their housekeeper Marie said. "He'll grow up to be a soldier like his father." "I hope not, " Lucille said, crossing herself "Where's papa?" Patrick wanted to know. "Shooting foxes, " Lucille said, spooning porridge into her son's mouth. «Bang,» Patrick said, spraying the porridge over the table. "Patrick Lassan! " Lucille said reprovingly.

"Lassan?" Marie asked. "Not Castineau? Not Sharpe?" «Lassan,» Lucille said firmly. Lucille's maiden name had been Lassan, then she had married a cavalry officer called Castineau who had died for France in the horrors of Russia, and now she lived with Sharpe, and the village, who rightly suspected that Lucille and her Enlishman were not married, never quite knew whether to call her Madame Lassan, Madame Castineau or Madame Sharpe. Lucille did not care what she was called, but she was determined that her family name would go on to the next generation and Patrick Lassan would see to that.

SHE JUMPED, startled, as the old bell clanged in the courtyard to announce that someone was at the main gate. "Who would call so early?" Lucille asked.