Judging by the mingled groans and labored breathing, the earthen floor must be covered almost elbow to elbow with wounded men. The scorching Spanish noonday heat had been replaced by the bitter cold of night. There was a scratchy blanket over his bandaged torso, but he didn't need it, for he was burning with the fever of infection, and a thirst worse than the pain.

He thought of his home in Wales, and wondered if he would ever see the lush green hills again. Probably not; a surgeon had once told him only one man in three survived a serious wound.

There was a certain peace in the prospect of dying. Not only would it bring surcease from pain, but he had, after all, come to Spain with the bitter knowledge that death would free him from an impossible dilemma. He had wanted to forget both Caroline, the woman he had loved more than honor, and the terrible promise he had made, never thinking he might be called upon to fulfill it.

With vague curiosity, he wondered who would miss him. His army friends, of course, but they were used to such losses. Within a day, he would have become "poor old Kenyon," simply one more of the fallen. No one in his family would be sorry, unless from irritation at having to put aside their finery to wear mourning black. His father, the Duke of Ashburton, would utter a few pious platitudes about God's will, but he would be secretly pleased to be free of his despised younger son.

If anyone would feel real grief at his passing, it would be his oldest friends, Lucien and Rafe. And there was Nicholas, of course, but he could not bear to think of Nicholas.

His bleak thoughts were interrupted by a woman's voice, as cool and clear as a Welsh mountain spring. Strange to hear an English lady in such a place. She must be one of the intrepid officers' wives who chose to "follow the drum," accompanying their men through all the hardships and danger of campaign life.