The tension was not limited to Grey, nor even to the officers. In the men, it was manifested as anticipation and exuberance, but with a nervous edge that gave rise to quarrels and petty conflicts, fights over misplaced equipment and borrowed whores. These were for the most part ignored, dealt with summarily by the sergeants, or settled privately between the aggrieved parties. But some things necessarily became public matters.

Two days before they began the march to Gravesend for embarkation, four companies were summoned to the square to witness a punishment. Crime, theft. Sentence, a hundred lashes—sentence reduced to fifty by the commanding officer, to insure that the man would be fit to march out with his companions.

Percy Wainwright was the lieutenant in charge, the commanding officer, though punishment was attended, as usual, by several senior officers—Grey among them.

He disliked the process, but understood its necessity. Usually, he simply stood, face impassive and eyes focused somewhere beyond what was happening. This time, though, he watched Percy.

Everything went smoothly. Percy seemed well in control of his men, the situation, and himself. And if he was white to the lips and openly sweating, that was nothing remarkable in a young commander performing this office for the first time.

Percy’s eyes were fixed on the process, and despite himself, Grey could not help following them. It was not severe, as such things went, though the man’s back was welted and bloody after a dozen strokes. Grey watched the rhythmic swing of the cat, heard the sergeant’s chanted count, and began, with a sudden sense of disorientation, to feel the impact of each blow in the pit of his stomach.

He fought the impulse to close his eyes.

He began to feel ill, the residue of his black-coffee breakfast churning inside him, rising up at the back of his throat. He was sweating, and fighting the sudden illusion that it was rain that ran down his face and neck.

His eyes were still open, but it was no longer the spring sunshine of the parade ground he saw, nor the stocky young soldier, groaning and flinching at each blow. He stood in the gray stone yard of Ardsmuir Prison, and saw rain run gleaming over straining shoulders, run mixed with blood down the deep groove of Jamie Fraser’s back.

He swallowed back bile and looked at his boots. Stood quietly, breathing, until it was finished.

The man was taken down from the triangle, helped away by his friends to the surgeon for a lathering of goose-grease and charcoal. Companies dismissed, leaving in an orderly fashion, quiet, as men tended to be after witnessing punishment. But when Grey turned to look for Percy, he had vanished.

Supposing that he required a moment’s privacy—he’d looked as though he were about to vomit, too—Grey returned to his own work, but made a point of coming back later, to inquire casually how Percy did, perhaps offer a drink or advice, as needed.

He did not find Percy in any of the places a second lieutenant would normally be. Surely he had not simply left and gone home to his rooms in Audley Street? Not without telling anyone, Grey thought, and no one recalled seeing him after the flogging.

It took quite a bit of casual wandering about, poking into this and that, before he finally found Percy, in one of the storage sheds behind the parade ground, where spare equipment was kept.

“All right?” he inquired, seeing Percy sitting on a mounting-block. It was a bright day, and sunlight fell through the boards of the shed, striping him with red where the light caught his uniform coat.

“Yes. Just thinking.” Percy’s face was in shadow, but his voice was calm.

“Ah. Don’t let me interrupt, then.” Grey reached for the door, but wasn’t surprised when Percy stood up.

“No, don’t go. It was good of you to come look for me.” He put his arms round Grey for a moment, bending his head so that their cheeks brushed.

Grey stiffened for an instant, surprised and half-alarmed—but it was quiet outside; the parade ground was empty, everyone bustling to finalize their preparations for departure. He returned the embrace, comforted by the touch, arousal stimulated by the sense of danger—but then stepped back.

“Quite sure you’re all right?” Percy had stopped sweating, and was no longer white, but was plainly still disturbed in mind. He nodded, though.

“That—reducing the sentence—was that all right?” he asked.

“Under the circumstances.” Grey paused, hand on the jamb. “Do you need a moment?”

Percy shrugged, and moved restlessly round the confines of the shed, kicking at things.

“This—what’s it called?”

“A whirligig.” A cylindrical cage made of slats, with a door in one side. It was used for minor punishments, lateness or missing equipment. “You put a man inside, and two men spin it round.”

“Do you—do we—use these often?” Percy nudged the toe of his boot at the horse, a wooden thing like a child’s rocking-horse—save that the back was not flat, but rose to a ridge.

“It depends.” Grey watched him, saw the disturbance in him, his usual grace lost as he moved about, restless, unable to settle. He felt the echo of it in his own flesh, and coughed, trying to dispel it. “Some officers use punishment a great deal; others not so much. And sometimes there’s no help for it.”

Percy nodded, but without looking at him. He stood for a few moments, looking at the shelves that ran along one wall, where various bits of equipment were stored. There were two baize bags there, where the cats were kept.

“Did you ever wonder what it’s like?” he asked suddenly. “To be flogged?”

Grey felt a clenching in his innards, but answered honestly.

“Yes. Now and then.” Once, at least.

Percy had been kneading one of the red baize bags, like a cat sharpening its claws. Now he let it fall to the floor, and took up the cat-o’nine-tails itself, a short handle with a cluster of leather cords.

“Do you want to find out?” he said, very softly.

“What?” An extraordinary feeling ran through Grey, half-fear, half-excitement.

“Take off your coat,” Percy said, still softly.

In a state of something like shock, Grey found his hand go to the buttons of his waistcoat. He felt as though sleepwalking, not believing any of it—that Percy had suggested it, that he was doing it. Then his shirt was off, and gooseflesh rose on his back and shoulders.

“Turn around,” Percy said, and he did, facing the horse.

The cords struck across his shoulders like the sting of a jellyfish, sharp and sudden. His hands closed tight on the horse’s back.

“Again,” he said, half breathless.

He heard Percy shift his weight, felt his interest shift as well, from the sense of nervous excitement to something more.

“Sure?” said Percy softly.

He bent a little forward and spread his arms, taking a fresh grip, exposing the full reach of his bare back. The stroke caught him just below the shoulderblades, with a force that drove the breath out of him and stung to the tips of his fingers.

“More?” The word was whispered. He could feel Percy’s breath, warm on the back of his neck, feel him close, the touch of a hand light on the naked skin of his waist.

God, don’t touch me!he thought, and felt his stomach clench as his gorge rose. But what he said, hoarse and low was, “Again. Don’t stop.”

Three more blows, and Percy stopped. Grey turned round to see him gripping the cat in both hands, face white.

“I’ve cut you. I’m sorry.”

He could feel the weal, a vivid line that ran from his right shoulderblade, angled down across the center of his back. It felt as though someone had pressed a hot wire into his skin.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I asked.”

“Yes, but—” Percy had seized his shirt, draped it across his bare shoulders. “I shouldn’t have started it. It—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”