He had the same dense bush of kinky hair as Centaine, but it was woven with grey strands and hung forward on to his forehead. His moustaches were wide and beeswaxed into impressive spikes, and he peered at Michael through a single dark glittering eye. The other eye was covered by a piratical black cloth patch. Who is this? he demanded. An English airman. The scowl abated. A fellow warrior, he said. A comrade-in-arms, another destroyer of the cursed boche! You have not destroyed a boche for over forty years, Anna reminded him without looking up from Michael's burns, but he ignored her and advanced on Michael, opening his arms like a bear to envelop him. Papa, be careful. He is wounded. Wounded!

cried Papa. Cognac! as though the two words were linked, and he found two heavy glass tumblers and placed them on the kitchen table, breathed on them with a decidedly garlicky breath, wiped them on his coat-tails, and cracked the red wax from the neck of the bottle.

Papa, you are not wounded, Centaine told him severely as he filled both tumblers up to the brim.

I would not insult a man of such obvious valour by asking him to drink alone. He brought one tumbler to Michael.

Comte Louis de Thiry, at your service, monsieur. Captain Michael Courtney. Royal Flying Corps. A votre sont6, Capitaine! A la v6tre, Monsieur le Comte! The comte drank with undisguised relish, then sighed and wiped his magnificent dark moustaches on the back of his hand and spoke to Anna.

Proceed with the treatment, woman. This will sting Anna warned, and for a moment Michael thought she meant the cognac, but she took a handful of the ointment from the stone jar and slapped it on to the open burns.

Michael let out an anguished whinny and tried to rise, but Anna held him down with one huge, red, work-chafed hand.

Bind it up, she ordered Centaine, and as the girl wound on the bandages, the agony faded and became a comforting warmth.

It feels better, Michael admitted.

Of course it does, Anna told him comfortably. My ointment is famous for everything from smallpox to piles. So is my cognac, murmured the comte, and recharged both tumblers.

Centaine went to the wash basket on the kitchen table and returned with one of the comte's freshly ironed shirts, and despite her father's protests, she helped Michael into it. Then as she was fashioning a sling for his injured arm, there was a buzzing clatter of an engine outside the kitchen windows and Michael caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on an equally familiar motor-cycle skidding to a halt in a spray of gravel.

The engine spluttered and hiccoughed into silence and a voice called agitatedly, Michael, my boy, where are you? The door burst open and admitted Lord Andrew Killigerran in tam o shanter, followed closely by a young officer in the uniform of the Royal Medical Corps. Thank God, there you are. Panic not, I've brought you a sawbones Andrew pulled the doctor to Michael's stool and then, with relief and a shade of pique in his voice, You seem to be doing damn well without us, I'll say that for you. I raided the local field hospital. Kidnapped this medico at the point of a pistol, been eating my heart out about you, and here you are with a glass in your hand, and- Andrew broke off and looked at Centaine for the first time, and forgot all about Michael's condition. He swept the tam o shanter from his head. It's true! he declaimed in perfect sonorous French, rolling his Rs in true Gallic fashion. Angels do indeed walk the earth. Go to your room immediately, child, Anna snapped, and her face screwed up like one of those fearsome carved dragons that guard the entrance to Chinese temples.

I am not a child, Centaine gave her an equally ferocious glare, then recomposed her features as she turned to Michael. Why does he call you his boy? You are much older than he is! He's Scots, Michael explained, already ridden by jealousy, and the Scots are all mad, also, he has a wife and four children. That's a filthy lie, Andrew protested. The children, yes, I admit to them, poor wee hairns! But no wife, definitely no wife. Ecossais, murmured the comte, great warriors and great drinkers. Then, in reasonable English, May I offer you a little cognac, monsieur? They were descending into a babble of languages, crossing from one to the other in mid-sentence.

Will somebody kindly introduce me to this paragon among men, that I may accept his fulsome offer? Le Comte de Thiry, I have the honour to present Lord Andrew Killigerran. Michael waved them together and they shook hands. Tiens! A genuine English milord. Scots, my dear fellow, big difference. He saluted the Comte with the tumbler. Enchanted, I'm sure. And this beautiful young lady is your daughter, the resemblance beautiful- Centaine, Anna intersposed, take your horse to the stable and groom him. Centaine ignored her and smiled at Andrew. The smile stopped even his banter, he stared at her, for the smile transformed her. It seemed to glow through her skin like a lamp through alabaster, and it lit her teeth and sparkled in her eyes like sunlight in a crystal jar of dark honey.

I think I should have a look at our patient. The young army doctor broke the spell and stepped forward to unwrap Michael's bandages. Anna understood the gesture, if not the words, and she interposed her bulk between them.

Tell him, if he touches my work, I will break his arm. Your services are not required, I'm afraid, Michael translated for the doctor.

Have a cognac, Andrew consoled him. It's not bad stuff, not bad at all. You are a landowner, milord? the Comte asked Andrew with subtlety. Of course? Bien sfir- Andrew made an expansive gesture which portrayed thousands of acres and at the same time brought his glass within range of where the Comte was filling the doctor's glass. The Comte topped him up and Andrew repeated, Of course, the family estates, you understand? Ah. The Comte's single eye glittered as he glanced across at his daughter. Your deceased wife has left you with four children? He had not followed the earlier exchange all that clearly.

No children, no wife, my humorous friend, Andrew indicated Michael, he likes to make jokes. Very bad English jokes.

Ha! English jokes. The Comte roared with laughter and would have clapped Michael on his shoulder had not Centaine rushed forward to protect him from the blow. Papa, be careful.

He is wounded. You will stay for lunch, all of you, the Comte declared. You will see, milord, my daughter is one of the finest cooks in the province. With a little help, Anna muttered disgustedly.

I say, I rather think I should be getting back, the young doctor murmured diffidently. I feel rather superfluous."We are invited to lunch, Andrew told him. Have a cognac. Don't mind if I do. The doctor succumbed without a struggle.

The Comte announced, It is necessary to descend to the cellars."Papa - Centaine began ominously.

We have guests! The Comte showed her the empty cognac bottle and she shrugged helplessly.

Milord, you will assist me in the selection of suitable refreshments? Honoured, Monsieur le Comte. As Centaine watched the pair, arms linked descend the stone staircase, there was a thoughtful look in her eyes.

He is a drole one, your friend, and very loyal. See how he rushed here to your aid. See how he places a charm on my Papa. Michael was surprised by the strength of his dislike for Andrew at that moment. He smelled the cognac, he muttered. That's the only reason he came. But what of the four children? Anna demanded. And their mother? She was having as much difficulty as the comte in following the conversation.

Four mothers, Michael explained. Four children, four different mothers. He is a polygamist! Anna swelled with shock and affront, and her face went a shade redder.

No, no, Michael assured her. You heard him deny it.

He is a man of honour, he would not do such a thing. He is married to none of them. Michael felt not a qualm, he had to have an ally somewhere in the family, but at that moment the happy pair returned from the cellars laden with black bottles.