He found La Marquesa writing at a small desk in her dressing room. She smiled at him. “How is it progressing?”

“Tomorrow.”

“For certain?”

“No.” He could hardly hide the regret in his voice, but he sensed that she shared it, and he wondered at that. “The Peer will make the decision tomorrow, but he won’t need to wait. It’ll be tomorrow.”

She laid the pen down, stood up, and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “So tomorrow you’ll take him?”

“Unless he’s dead already.”

She walked onto the mirador and pushed open one of the lattice doors. The San Vincente showed two fires, pale in the strong sun, and the San Cayetano smoked where a fire had been extinguished by the defenders. She turned back to him. “What will you do with him?”

“If he doesn’t resist, then he’s a prisoner.”

“Will you parole him?”

“No, not again. He’ll be shackled. He broke parole. He won’t be exchanged, he won’t be treated well, he’ll just be sent to England, to a prison, and he’ll be held there until the war ends.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he can be tried for murder because he killed men when he was on parole.”.

“So tomorrow I’m safe?”

“Until they send another one to find you.”

She nodded. He was used to her now, to her gestures, to her sudden dazzling smiles, and he had forgotten the coquettish, teasing woman he had met at San Christobal. That was the public face, she told him, while he saw the private and he wondered if he would see her again, in the future, and he would see the public face surrounded by fawning officers and he would feel a terrible, keen jealousy. She smiled at him. “What happens to you when it’s done?”

“We’ll join the army.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No. Sunday perhaps.” The day after tomorrow. “We’ll march north and bring Marmont to battle.”

“And then?”

“Who knows? Madrid perhaps.”

She smiled again. “We have a house in Madrid.”

“A house?”

“It’s very small. No more than sixty rooms.” She laughed at him. “You’ll be very welcome though, alas, it has no secret entrance.” It was unreal, Sharpe knew. They never talked of her husband, or of Teresa. They were secret lovers, Sharpe and a lady, and they would have to stay secret. They had been given these few days, these nights, but fate was going to take them apart; he to a battle, she to the secret war of letters and codes. They had this night, tomorrow’s battle, and then, if they were lucky, just one more night, the last night, and then they were in fate’s hands. She turned to look once more at the fortresses. “Will you fight tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I can watch you.” She gestured at the telescope on its heavy tripod. “I will watch you.”

“I’ll try not to be tempted into anything rash because of that.”

She smiled. “Don’t be rash. I want you tomorrow.”

“I can bring you Leroux in chains.”

She laughed, a touch of sadness in the sound. “Don’t do that. Remember he may not know who El Mirador is, yet. He might guess, and then he might escape.”

“He won’t escape.”

“No.” She reached out for his hand and led him into the shade of the Palacio. He lowered a wooden-slatted blind against the sunlight and turned to see her on the black-curtained bed. She looked beautiful, pale against the darkness, as fragile as alabaster. She smiled. “You can take your boots off, Captain Sharpe. Siesta time.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Later that afternoon he held her as she slept and she seemed to jump each time the big guns sounded. He kissed her forehead, pushing back the golden hair from her skin, and she opened her eyes sleepily, pushed her body closer to his, and murmured to him. She was only half awake. „I’ll miss you, Richard, I’ll miss you.“

He soothed her, as he would a child, and knew that he would miss her too, but fate was inexorable. Outside, beyond the blind, beyond the lattice, the guns hastened their fate, and they clung to each other as if the press of their bodies might be imprinted on their memories for ever.

“Where the hell have you been?” Hogan was truculent, sweating in the heat.

“Here, sir.”

“I looked for you last night. Damn it, Richard! You could at least let people know where you are! Suppose it was important!”

“Was it, sir?”

“As it happens, no.” Hogan conceded it grudgingly. “Patrick Harper said he’d heard you were with some cobbler’s daughter. Doris or something, and that she didn’t have any legs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hogan opened his snuff box. “Damn it, Richard, your marriage is your affair, but you’re damned lucky to have Teresa.” He sniffed violently, to cover his feelings. Sharpe waited for the sneeze, it came, and Hogan shook his head. “God’s Blood! I won’t say anything.”

“Nothing to say, sir.”

“I hope not, Richard, I hope not.” Hogan paused, listening to the sizzling sound as a red hot shot was rammed onto the soaked wadding. The gun fired, bellowing noise at the houses, drifting the bitter smoke back where the two officers talked. “Have you heard from Teresa, Richard?”

“Not for a month, sir.”

“She’s chasing Caffarelli’s men. Ramon wrote me.” Ramon was her brother. “Your child’s fine and bonny, in Casate-jada.”

“That’s good, sir.” Sharpe was not certain whether Hogan was trying to make him feel guilty. Perhaps he should feel guilty, yet he did not. He and La Marquesa were so temporary, their loving doomed to be of such a short time, that somehow it did not affect his long term plans. And he could not feel guilty about protecting El Mirador. It was his job.

Hogan glanced at Sharpe’s Company, paraded in the street, and grunted that they looked good. Sharpe agreed, “The rest has suited them, sir.”

“You know what to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hogan wiped his forehead. The noonday sun was searing the city. He repeated his orders despite Sharpe’s answer. “Go behind the assault, Richard. And no one’s to leave, understand? No one, unless you’ve seen their face, and when you’ve found the bastard, bring him to me. If I’m not here, I’ll be at Headquarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Company filed into the new trench that led, in safety, down the gorge towards the Tormes. Overhead the shot still rumbled, still crashed into the fortresses, and the attacking troops were cheerful and confident. This time they could not fail. The San Cayetano had been so battered that one wall was virtually gone and that was the first fort which was to be attacked. It would be a daylight attack, hard on the echoes of the siege guns, and the troops were happy because the French guns were mostly silent. A Rifle Lieutenant was to lead the Forlorn Hope, but neither he nor his men wore the strained and hopeless look of other Forlorn Hopes. A Forlorn Hope expected to die. Their job was to draw the enemy’s fire, to empty the defending guns before the main attack erupted into the breach. The volunteers grinned at Sharpe. They recognised him and envied the laurel wreath badge on his arm. “Won’t be like Badajoz, sir.”

“No, you’ll be fine.”

Sharpe could see at the far end of the ravine the silver waters of the Tormes sliding quietly towards the far off sea. His men had fished the waters in their long, restful afternoons and they would miss the trout. Sharpe saw Harper staring at the water. “Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“What’s this I hear about Doris? Something you said to Major Hogan?”

“Doris, sir?” Harper looked innocent, then gauged that Sharpe was not upset. “You mean Dolores, sir. I might have said something.”

“How did you hear about it?”

Harper pulled back the flint of his seven-barrelled gun. “Me, sir? I think Lord Spears was looking for you one day. He might have mentioned it.” He grinned at Sharpe conspiratorialy. “Legless, I hear, sir.”

“You hear wrong. It’s not true.”

“No, sir. Course not, sir.” Harper whistled tunelessly and stared up at the cloudless sky.