There were those who thought Scott's mind had gone and that the man the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon's conqueror, had described as the finest soldier of his era, was a senile fool. And there were times when Scott himself felt they were right.

The general stood and extended his hand as Nathan entered the room, limping slightly. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

The two men shook hands. Nathan was shocked at the weakness in Scott's grip. “I'm glad to see you, sir, but it's no longer captain, or have you forgotten?”

Scott sat back down in the large overstuffed chair that seemed to engulf him despite his size, and gestured Nathan to its companion. “I've forgotten a little, but not that. I just feel more comfortable calling you by that rank.”

“And I, too, prefer to call you general, even though you've retired.”

Scott smiled. “Thank God. I'm not ready to be referred to as Mr. Scott, or anything else for that matter.”

Nathan understood. General Scott would always be General Scott. The man known with irreverent affection as Old Fuss and Feathers was a stickler for military protocol. He would never change and would always be called general. Nathan could conceive of nothing else even though he had been distantly related to Scott by virtue of Nathan's late wife being Scott's wife's cousin. Nathan had once tried to chart the relationship on a piece of paper, but had given up in frustration at the tangled genealogical weave.

Neither man had known of the relationship until Nathan had been a junior officer on Scott's staff for several months. It had amused both of them, since they both lived and worked in a city where nepotism worked wonders in advancing one's career.