"Speaking of love, have you seen the announcement of Constance Turner's engagement in the Times? I am so pleased for her. She deserves a little happiness." Barbara smiled. "But wouldn't you know-another flier."

Rutledge had known Constance Turner's husband. Medford Turner had died of severe burns in early 1916, after crashing at the Front. He'd been pulled from his aircraft by a French artillery company that had risked intense flames to get to him. Rutledge and his men had watched that dogfight, before both planes had disappeared down the line. He hadn't known it was Turner at the time, only that the English pilot had shown amazing skill.

Their orders were given to the waiter, and the conversation moved on.

Hamish, ever present at the back of his mind, said to Rutledge now, "Inverness is a verra' long way." The voice was deep, Scots, and inaudible to the other diners-a vestige of shell shock, guilt, and nightmares that had begun during the fierce battle of the Somme in July 1916. In the clinic, Dr. Fleming had called that voice the price of survival, but for Rutledge it had been a torment nearly beyond enduring.

Inverness might as well be on the other side of the world. Rutledge had made it a point since the war to avoid going into Scotland. And Hamish knew why. Even his one foray there, on official business, had not ended well. In truth, he'd nearly died, taking Hamish into the darkness with him.

At that same moment Frances turned to her brother with a question, and he had to bring his attention back to the present.

But after he'd dropped her at the house that had belonged to their parents, and driven on to his flat, he couldn't shut the words out of his mind: Doesn't she visit her brother-in-law around this time of year? I'm surprised she hasn't married him. He's been in love with her for ages.

Meredith Channing had never spoken-to him-of her family or her past. And he had been careful not to ask questions of others that might draw attention to either his ignorance or his interest. She was reserved, a poise almost unnatural in one so young. Rutledge suspected it had been the result of what she had seen and done in the war. Nor would she have cared to be discussed as she was tonight.