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The half-smile on Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild’s face faded, but he did not attempt to evade Jenna Montague’s question. After a short hesitation, he said bluntly, “Yes, we storm the walls of Badajoz tonight.”

Jenna briefly closed her eyes, trying to quell a queasy rush of fear. Though she’d always worried for Papa’s safety, until Mama’s death during the bitter winter retreat from Corunna, she’d never experienced this deep, gut-twisting apprehension. Now she knew all too well that someone dear to her could die.

Her father. This strong, quiet man who had no idea he held her heart. She took a ragged breath.

Garrett put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “We’re ready, Jenna. And after months of mud and inactivity, the men are spoiling for a fight.”

Trying to match his calm, she summoned up a smile. “I trust this time you’ve not volunteered to lead the Forlorn Hope!”

He laughed, as she’d meant him to. “No, I’ve no fancy to lead the first troop of soldiers up the scaling ladders while the Frog defenders rain shot, pitch and rifle fire down on my head. Suicidal odds haven’t the attraction they once did.”

Thank God for that, anyway. “If they go tonight, how long until…”

“I cannot say,” he answered her unfinished question. “Once we reinforce the first wave that makes it over the walls, the city will be ours - but getting in…” The major grimaced. “When we do, though, I fear for the city’s inhabitants. After two failed assaults and months of taunts from the ramparts, the troopers are in an ugly mood. I’m marching our soldiers out as soon as the fortress is secured, but rumor says many commanders intend to turn a blind eye and leave the troops to their plunder. God help the civilians then.”

Jenna shivered, having been around an army long enough to know exactly what sort of retribution men crazed by blood lust and anger were capable of exacting. “Surely they know not all the inhabitants are French sympathizers.”

The major’s face remained grim. “None of the men are likely to care overmuch about political niceties, and some of them really are the ‘dregs of the earth’ as Wellington called them. I can only trust the general won’t let things get too out of hand.”

“Perhaps the whole business will be resolved by tomorrow night. That would be a blessing.”

He patted her hand again. “Sometimes I think you who follow the army have it the worst. Those of us in the thick of it are too preoccupied - or terrified - for worry. But you - listening to the guns, the shouting, with no idea how the battle is faring and no means to affect the outcome… It must be terrible.”

At his words, she saw again the haze of smoke obscuring the field, heard the dreadful din of artillery, the even more awful groans and cries punctuating the silence after it ceased. Surprised by his understanding, she nodded, her throat too tight for speech.

“You mustn’t worry too much. Your papa is a seasoned campaigner, and those in the first assault face the greatest threat. I have little doubt tomorrow evening you will be plagued with us once again gathered around your table, Lord Anthony looking bored, Harry and Alastair arguing over which unit fought best and apologizing that they hadn’t time to hunt up some rabbit.”

Oh, may it be so! Jenna prayed.

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