Salamanca, Spain

June 1812

The white-haired surgeon wiped his forehead wearily, leaving a smear of blood, as he studied the man on the crude operating table. "You certainly made a mess of yourself, Captain," the surgeon said with a distinct Scottish burr. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to block a charge of grapeshot with your chest?"

" 'Fraid not," Lord Michael Kenyon said in a strained whisper. "At Oxford, they teach the classics rather than practical matters. Maybe I should have gone to the new military college."

"It will be a real challenge to see if I can pick all the bits out," the surgeon said with macabre cheer. "Have some brandy. Then I'll get to work."

An orderly held a bottle to Michael's lips. He forced himself to consume as much of the fiery liquid as possible. A pity there wasn't time or brandy enough to get seriously drunk.

When Michael finished drinking, the surgeon slashed away the remnants of his patient's jacket and shirt. "You were amazingly lucky, Captain. If the French gunners had loaded the powder right, there wouldn't be enough pieces of you left to identify."

There was an ugly sound of metal scraping on metal. Then the surgeon wrenched a ball from Michael's shoulder. The resultant blaze of agony made the whole world darken. Michael bit his lip until it bled. Before the surgeon could strike again, he asked haltingly, "The battle-is it won?"

"I believe so. They say the French are haring away at full speed. Your lads have done it again." The surgeon began digging at the next buried fragment.

It was a relief to surrender to the blackness.

Michael returned to awareness imperfectly, floating in a sea of agony that numbed his senses and hazed his vision. Every breath sent stiletto-sharp pains stabbing through his chest and lungs. He was lying on a straw pallet in the corner of a barn that had been commandeered for a field hospital. It was dark, and fretful pigeons cooed from the rafters, complaining about the invasion of their home.