It is a brutal occupation,he wrote, and God help me, if I am no hero, I am damned good at it. You understand, I think, for I know you are the same.

The quill had left marks on his fingers, so tightly as he’d gripped it. He laid it down briefly, rubbing his hand, then took it up again.

God help me further,he wrote, more slowly. I am afraid.

Afraid of what?

Some arsehole panicked….

I am afraid of everything. Afraid of what I may have done, unknowing—of what I might do. I am afraid of death, of mutilation, incapacity—but any soldier fears these things, and fights regardless. I have done it, and—

He wished to write firmly, and will do it again.Instead, the words formed beneath his quill as they formed in his mind; he could not help but write them.

I am afraid that I might find myself unable. Not only unable to fight, but to command.He looked at that for a moment, and put pen tentatively to the paper once more.

Have you known this fear, I wonder? I cannot think it, from your outward aspect.

That outward aspect was vivid in his mind; Fraser was a man who would never pass unnoticed. Even during their most relaxed and cordial moments, Fraser had never lost his air of command, and when Grey had watched the Scottish prisoners at their work, it was plain that they regarded Fraser as their natural leader, all turning to him as a matter of course.

And then, there had been the matter of the scrap of tartan. He felt hot blood wash through him and his stomach clench with shame and anger. Felt the startling thud of a cat-o’-nine-tails on bare flesh, felt it in the pit of his stomach, searing the skin between his shoulders.

He shut his eyes in reflex, fingers clenching so tightly on the quill that it cracked and bent. He dropped the ruined feather and sat still a moment, breathing, then opened his eyes and reached for another.

Forgive me,he wrote. And then, hardly pausing, And yet why should I beg your forgiveness? God knows that it was your doing, as much as mine. Between your actions and my duty…But Fraser, too, had acted from duty, even if there was more to the matter. He sighed, crossed out the last bit, and put a period after the words Forgive me.

We are soldiers, you and I. Despite what has lain between us in the past, I trust that…

That we understand one another.The words spoke themselves in his mind, but what he saw was not the understanding of the burdens of command, nor yet a sharing of the unspoken fears that haunted him, sharp as the sliver of metal next his heart.

What he saw was that one frightful glimpse of nakedness he had surprised in Fraser’s face, naked in a way he would wish to see no man naked, let alone a man such as this.

“I understand,” he said softly, the sound of the words surprising him. “I wish it were not so.”

He looked down at the muddled mess of paper before him, blotched and crumpled, marked with spider blots of confusion and regret. It reminded him of that terse note, written with a burnt stick. Despite everything, Fraser had given him help when he asked it.

Might he ever see Jamie Fraser again? There was a good chance he would not. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might.

The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His quill had dried; he did not dip it again.

I love you,he wrote, the strokes light and fast, making scarcely a mark upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were not so.

Then he rose, scooped up the scribbled papers, and, crushing them into a ball, threw them into the fire.

He was unfortunately notdead when he woke in the morning, but wished he were. Every muscle in his body ached, and the ghastly residue of everything he had drunk clung like dusty fur to the inside of his throbbing head.

Tom Byrd brought him a tray, paused to view the remains, and shook his head in a resigned manner, but said nothing.

Oddly enough, his hands did not shake. Still, he clasped them carefully round his teacup and raised it cautiously to his lips. As he did so, he noticed a letter on the tray, sealed with a blob of crimson wax, in which the initials SC were incised. Simon Coles.

He sat up, narrowly avoiding spilling the tea, and fumbled open the missive, which proved to contain a brief note from the lawyer and a sheet of paper containing several drawings, with penciled descriptions written tidily beneath. Descriptions of the bits of jewelry that Anne Thackeray had taken with her when she eloped with Philip Lister.

“Tom,” Grey croaked.

“Yes, me lord?”

“Go tell the stable lad to ready the horses, then pack. We’ll leave in an hour.”

Both Tom’s eyebrows lifted, but he bowed.

“Very good, me lord.”

He had hoped to escape from Blackthorn Hall unnoticed, and was in the act of depositing a gracious note of thanks—pleading urgent business as excuse for his abrupt removal—on Edgar’s desk, when a voice spoke suddenly behind him.

“John!”

He whirled, guilt stamped upon his features, to find Maude in the doorway, a garden trug over one arm, filled with what looked like onions but were probably daffodil bulbs or something agricultural of the sort.

“Oh. Maude. How pleased I am to see you. I thought I should have to take my leave without expressing my thanks for your kindness. How fortunate—”

“You’re leaving us, John? So soon?”

She was a tall woman, and handsome, her dark good looks a proper match for Edgar’s. Maude’s eyes, however, were not those of a poetess. Something more in the nature of a gorgon’s, he had always felt; riveting the attention of her auditors, even though all instinct bade them flee.

“I…yes. Yes. I received a letter—” He had Coles’s note with him, and flourished it as evidence. “I must—”

“Oh, from Mr. Coles, of course. The butler told me he had brought you a note, when he brought me mine.”

She was looking at him with a most unaccustomed fondness, which gave him a small chill up the back. This increased when she moved suddenly toward him, setting aside her trug, and cupped a hand behind his head, looking searchingly into his eyes. Her breath was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.

“Are you sure you are quite well enough to travel, my dear?”

“Ahh…yes,” he said. “Quite. Quite sure.” God in heaven, did she mean to kiss him?

Thank God, she did not. After examining his face feature by feature, she released him.

“You should have told us, you know,” she said reproachfully.

He managed a vaguely interrogative noise in answer to this, and she nodded toward the desk. Where, he now saw, the newspaper cutting referring to him as the Hero of Crefeld was displayed in all its glory, along with a note in Simon Coles’s handwriting.

“Oh,” he said. “Ah. That. It really—”

“We had not the slightest idea,” she said, looking at him with what in a lesser woman would have passed for doe-eyed respect. “You are so modest, John! To think of all you have suffered—it shows so clearly upon your haggard countenance—and to say not a word, even to your family!”

It was a cold day and the library fire had not been lit, but he was beginning to feel very warm. He coughed.

“There is, of course, a certain degree of exaggeration—”

“Nonsense, nonsense. But of course, your natural nobility of character causes you to shun public acclaim, I understand entirely.”

“I knew you would,” Grey said, giving up. They beamed at each other for a few seconds; then he coughed again and made purposefully to pass her.