There was a brisk rap at the door, and Gabriel entered, ducking beneath the low lintel. Rain dripped off his heavy cloak. “You ready with that portmanteau, woman?”

“Ay de mi,” Josefa muttered, struggling with the stiff straps and buckles. “I'll be glad when we get where we're going.”

“Won't we all?” Gabriel said dourly. His big hand rested for a moment on her arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. At least he'd been born in this land, but it was an alien shore for a peasant woman from the barren mountains of northern Spain. She gave him a rather shy smile, then bobbed her head, basking in the surprising gentleness of his sudden smile. Gabriel was her man, the sun to her earth; she always walked two steps behind him, and his word was law.

Gabriel hefted the portmanteau. “Little girl, you're to travel inside the carriage today. Colonel's orders.”

“Since when has he been giving orders?” Tamsyn snapped irritably to Gabriel's retreating back. It seemed the last straw on this dismal morning. “I've no intention of being swayed and jolted in that chaise. It makes me feel sick.”

She followed Gabriel down the creaky wooden staircase, across the lamplit stone-flagged hall, and out into 'the gloomy inn yard, where stood the postchaise that had brought them from London, ostlers putting the horses to, one of them tethering Cesar behind.

Colonel, Lord St. Simon stood watching. His cloak was black with the drizzle, and a steady stream ran from the brim of his beaver hat, but he seemed oblivious of the weather.

“Good morning.” He greeted Tamsyn briskly. “I trust you slept well?”

“I always do,” she replied. “Even when the sheets are damp. Will it ever stop raining?”

He laughed shortly. “Yes, one day it will. One morning you'll wake up to bright-blue sky and sunshine and birdsong, and you'll forget all about the rain. It's one of England's tricks.”

Tamsyn grimaced, disbelieving, and huddled into her cloak, her hair already plastered to her head.

It was no weather for a buttercup, Julian caught himself thinking with a ripple of amusement. She looked shrunken and doleful, her bright hair rain-dark, her small body hunched into the heavy cloak, all her challenging, impudent sparkle vanquished by the dreary climate. Then he began to wonder what his brigade was doing, and his amusement died. If she didn't like the weather in her adopted country, she had only herself to blame.

How long had it had taken Tim to whip the men into shape after the excesses of Badajos? Where were they on the long march to Campo Mayor? Who was still alive? The questions as always roiled in his brain, and he had to force himself to come back to the rain-soaked yard of the inn at Launceston and his present preoccupations.

“I want you to travel inside the chaise with Josefa this morning,” he said curtly.

“So Gabriel said, but I don't wish to. I'd rather be wet than nauseated in that smelly, jolting box.” She turned to release her horse from the rear of the chaise.

Julian caught her arm. “I need you inside, Tamsyn.” “Why?”

“We're crossing Bodmin Moor,” he stated as if that were answer enough.

Tamsyn frowned. They'd arrived at Launceston early the previous afternoon, and the colonel had insisted they go no farther that day, citing in much the same tone as now the crossing of Bodmin Moor. “So, milord colonel?” She dashed rain from her face as she regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“So, buttercup,” he replied deliberately, “I need you to ride with your damned treasure. Gabriel and I will be outside as a first defense, and you will be armed and ready within.”

“Oh. Are there bandits on this Bodmin Moor then?” Her expression livened considerably. '

“We call them highwaymen,” he said with an arid smile. “But they're as savage and ruthless a breed as any mountain brigand or robber baron.”

Tamsyn decided to let that pass. “Gabriel has my weapons. I'll fetch them.” She went off immediately, her step much crisper at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven this dreary journey.

Julian stamped his feet on the cobbles and turned up the collar of his cloak, running a mental check over his own weapons. “Into Bodmin and out of this world” was what the locals said when preparing to cross the bleak, windswept moor. Apart from his school years he d grown up at Tregarthan, the St. Simon family estate overlooking the River Fowey, and considered himself as much a Cornishman as the landlord of this Launceston inn, steeped in the lores and customs of the county. And he loved every blade of grass, every flower of the hedgerow. He took pleasure in the thought of getting his hands on the reins of his estate again, of walking around his house, riding over his lands. If he was truly honest, there would be some compensation for this enforced rustication.

He'd made some progress on Wellington's account in London, presenting to the lords of Westminster the Duke's urgent need for more men and money. They'd listened to him with flattering attention and suggested he return in a month to answer further questions once they'd had a chance to mull over the duke's request. The wheels of government turned very slowly, and Julian had not expected any immediate decisions. He'd written to Wellington with what news he had and was resigned to returning to London in July, when he hoped there'd be more concrete results to impart. He knew this politicking was vital work, but it was dull work, nevertheless, for a man who thrived on the smell and sound of gunfire, the challenges and privations of forced marches, and the quirks and vulgarities, the courage and the foolishness, of the common soldier. Not even the prospect of his own house and land could truly compensate for that loss.

And if it weren't for the bastard spawn of a Spanish robber, he would still be with the army. Wellington would never have sent him on this diplomatic mission if the opportunity hadn't presented itself so forcefully.

Tamsyn was blithely unaware of his reflections as she installed herself in the coach with the shivering Josefa and ran her eye over the chests of gold and jewelry stashed beneath the seats. Their presence made the inside of the vehicle very cramped. Normally this wouldn't trouble anyone, since until today only Josefa had been traveling inside. But Tamsyn couldn't fault the colonel's defensive measures if they were really about to cross wild and dangerous country, so she curled herself into a corner, leaving as much room for the larger figure of Josefa as she could, and checked that her two pistols were primed. Josefa would reload for her if they were attacked.

Gabriel stuck his head through the window. “We'll be off now. You all right in here?”

“How far is it across this moor?” Tamsyn asked. “Don't know.” He withdrew his head. “Colonel, the bairn wants to know how far she needs to travel in the coach.”

“It's twenty-one miles to Bodmin,” Julian said, swinging onto his horse. “After that she can ride if she wishes. It's but twelve miles to Tregarthan from there.”

Tamsyn nodded, satisfied. It was only just past dawn, and they should accomplish thirty-three miles easily by nightfall; they'd been managing forty a day from London along the paved stagecoach roads with frequent changes.

However, as they left the ruined keep and tower of Launceston Castle behind, it became clear that the narrow, rutted track across Bodmin Moor was no stage road. It was an ancient road, known as the Tinners Way, used to carry tin and clay from the mines from Fowey through Bodmin and across the moor into southern England. On either side the dark, rainy land stretched to the horizon, scrawny trees bent double with the force of the gusting wind, stumpy clumps of broom and gorse clinging to the peaty earth. The coachman kept his horses at an easy trot as the track crested steep hills and plunged down again into the flat moorland. The iron wheels churned the wet earth into a sea of mud, and every now and again the chaise would lurch almost to a halt as the wheels became enmired.